


Lost Cause

by lorcaswhisky (aristofranes)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but also jokes?, communication via fortune cookies, enemies to reluctant allies to inept detectives to frenemies?, fixing the injustice of erasing Discovery from history one poorly-thought out escapade at a time, grudgingly canon compliant, inept heists, questionable detective work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristofranes/pseuds/lorcaswhisky
Summary: 2270. Nearly ten years ago, Gabriel Lorca returned from the mirror universe to a home that wasn't really his anymore. With no ship, no rank, no reputation, no Kat - and no hope of ever finding out what happened to her - he's ready to let Starfleet help him to disappear.But it's hard to move on when you don't know what you're moving on from. So when he stumbles on a chance to uncover the truth about what happened to the people he loved, Gabriel finds himself teaming up with a very unlikely partner for one last, deeply unofficial, mission.





	1. Chapter 1

**_Personnel File - Lorca, Gabriel_ **

_**Status:** Retired _

_**Current location:** [REDACTED] _

**_Service record:_ **

_[...] **2246.3** Awarded Medal of Commendation for action taken on Tarsus IV. **2246.7** Promoted to Commander, assigned to USS _Hawking _[...] **2251.2** Assumed command of USS _Buran _[...]_ _ **2256.4** [REDACTED] **2261.7** Retired_

_-Starfleet Personnel Logs, accessed 2270.3 by <UNKNOWN USER> _

_*_

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED 2261.7.10.22:34<< _

_**TO:** Pike, Captain C. _

_**FROM:** Lorca, G. _

_**SECURITY:** HIGH _

_Chris,_

_I don't know if my last few messages reached you. I guess not. I'm hoping this one works._

_You'll have heard the rumors by now. They're true. I'm home. Back, anyway. I can't say any more than that here._

_I need to speak to you, in person. I have so many questions. I'm sure you do, too._

_Let me know._

_Gabriel_

_ >>MESSAGE DELETED<< _

* * *

 

 **Dj’reek,** **2270**

It wasn’t that Gabriel forgot. It was just that remembering was … complicated, these days.

There were the official memories. The ones he had agreed to. The ones that were all over the news, almost a decade ago.

 _… Starfleet issued a statement today addressing speculation surrounding the whereabouts of Captain Gabriel Lorca. Officials confirmed reports that the former commanding officer of the USS_ Buran _has returned from ‘five years of covert operations’. Lorca is reported to have sustained significant injuries during the course of this mission, which officials state has led to what they described as ‘substantial and permanent memory loss’. They add that the former Captain has been retired, and will be moved to an undisclosed location, where officials say they hope his privacy will be respected. Starfleet have refused to comment on whether the destruction of the USS_ Buran _,_ _long alleged to have been ordered by Lorca himself, was linked to this undercover work, fuelling calls from campaigners_ _to reopen the inquest into the disaster. More on this breaking story at 10, when we will be joined in the studio by Dr. Harriet Braithwaite-Jones, from campaign group ‘Justice for the_ Buran’ _..._

And then, there were the Unofficial memories. The real ones. The ones so deeply classified that Gabriel couldn’t even think about them too loudly without risking a visit from Starfleet Intelligence.

 _… Starfleet did not issue a statement today regarding the truth about Captain Gabriel Lorca. Officials did not confirm that the former commanding officer of the USS_ Buran _was thrown by accident into a nightmare alternate universe, where he lived - existed, more accurately - in near constant fear for his life for five long, brutal years, pushed daily to the very edge of his training and well beyond the limits of his principles. During his final, desperate, attempt to reach home, Starfleet did not report, Lorca sustained injuries which_ should _have killed him, but through some quirk of fate or destiny or sheer bloody-mindedness left him with little more than substantial scarring to his hands and arms and, unfortunately, every single one of his memories of that place entirely in tact. On waking from a medically-induced coma, Captain Lorca realised that this universe was barely recognisable as the one he had spent five years dreaming of and was, in its own way, a brand new nightmare. He was summarily retired and packed off to a remote colony where his inconvenient return could not cause Starfleet any further trouble or embarrassment. Starfleet refused to comment on the circumstances surrounding the deaths, during his prolonged absence, of two of his closest friends, stating only that this was ‘classified’..._

And so, for the most part, Gabriel tried his best to not remember.

It was not, he told himself, the same as forgetting.

But every year the seasons cycled and, for a brief time at least, the days on Dj’reek, a duranium grey, icy, slushy, bastard asshole of a place, lengthened and turned warm. Tiny purple birds returned from their winter migration, impossibly bright against the habitual murk of the colony, and the air danced with blossom. And every year, it caught Gabriel off-guard, because it was so easy to lose track of time here, where the months bore no relation to the Standard calendar. Every year, he would note the shift, and feel a sense of dread that felt out of sync with everything around him, until he realised the date and _remembered_ , every year, with a jolt of guilt, whether he wanted to or not.

“The anniversary was always going to be hard,” his therapist had reassured him, the first few times this happened.

“The anniversary of _what?"_

Complicated.

Which was why, every year, Gabriel did the only thing he could think of to commemorate an event he knew nothing about.

He went to the bar.

No one paid much attention to him as he pulled up a stool. No one ever did. It was one of the best things about this place.

“Here’s to you, Pip,” he said to himself, and knocked back the first shot.

The whisky was terrible. It always was. There weren't enough humans on Dj'reek to make it worth the bar's time keeping anything half-decent in stock. This was a local … alternative, a concoction that simultaneously tasted like the bottom of a bog and burned like a naga chili. But it was potent and plentiful and, as with everything else these days, it would have to do.

The second shot was always worse, somehow. He was never sure whether it was his tastebuds protesting, or because of who he was drinking it for.

 _Kat rocked back, grimacing, hands flapping in a gesture of_ too hot too hot too hot.

 _"That is_ horrendous _," she rasped at last, dabbling at her streaming eyes. "Where did you even_ find _it?"_

_"I like it," Gabriel managed, once the burning in his throat had subsided sufficiently, and when she laughed, his stomach flipped like it had jumped to warp._

_"Liar. I can see you sweating."_

_"Fine. So it's a little rough around the edges." He grinned, aiming for 'charmingly roguish' and landing instead somewhere near 'tipsy goof'. "Aren't all the best things?"_

_Her eyes met his, glittering in the starlight, and he poured himself a brave measure and inclined his glass at her._

Gabriel gripped the tumbler tightly, trying to counteract the shake of his hand.

“And here’s … here's to you,” he mumbled.

The third shot was for him, because why the hell not.

By the time the whisky had become palatable, he’d lost track of exactly who he was drinking for. Which was partly why, when it happened, Gabriel thought he had imagined it.

Someone said his _name._

“Captain Lorca?”

Gabriel looked up, confused, jerked out of his reverie by the unfamiliar sound of his old title.

It wasn’t _Captain_ Lorca. Not anymore. Not here. Here, it was _Mr_ Lorca. Starfleet had been very clear on that point. No ship. No crew. No rank. Just plain old Mr Lorca.

He whipped around, straining to see who had spoken. But his head reeled with the whisky and the sudden movement, and by the time his brain caught up with his vision, whoever it was was already gone, evaporated into the gloom of the half-empty bar. If they’d even been there at all.

He turned back to his drink, masking the disappointment with another sip--

There was a little piece of paper - _paper,_ the real stuff, not replicated - soaking up the spilled booze on the bar in front of him.

A fortune cookie slip.

That was new. Or old, depending on how you looked at it. Time was, crumbs and slips from fortune cookies had followed him like a warp trail.

He hadn’t been able to see much point in them, recently.

Gabriel peeled it free, carefully, and held it closer to his face, squinting at the tiny printed letters in the half-light of the bar.

_In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd._

Well, that was an anti-climax. _In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd._ What was that supposed to mean? It didn't make any sense. It wasn’t even spelled correctly. Mud. Mudd. Muddddd.

He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, screwing it up into a tight ball, unimpressed.

Then stopped, a fuzzy half-thought bothering at him.

He'd been so _sure_ he'd heard his name.

It was probably nothing. A coincidence, at best.

Gabriel hated coincidences.

He uncurled the little ball of paper, as gently as his whisky-dulled fingers would allow, and smoothed it back out again.

_In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd._

The words didn’t make much more sense the second time around.

"Hey," Gabriel called to the barkeeper, waving the slip at xir. "You see who dropped this?"

The barkeeper shrugged all four of xir shoulders, deeply unimpressed about being disturbed from the PADD xe was engrossed in, and went back to stoically ignoring him.

Gabriel rested the little piece of paper against his glass and stared at it, drumming his fingers on the scratched bar top. And then, without really understanding why, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

It was a problem for future Gabriel to solve. Along with the hangover he would inevitably be treated to.

Tonight, more drinks.

Hours later, Gabriel’s fingers stumbled over the keypad to his apartment.

The room beyond was illuminated only by the light that spilled in from the hallway, and slid into total darkness as the door closed behind him. Gabriel continued on unsteady legs regardless. Everything was in its place, neat and precise. Even after the too-many drinks of the evening, he could find his way without turning on the lights.

It was an old habit, drummed into him by decades spent on starships. Personal effects to a minimum. Keep things tidy. Anything not screwed down could become a missile in the wrong circumstances. Everybody in the Fleet knew someone who knew someone who had been killed by a treasured possession when the inertial dampeners failed, though few took the advice quite as seriously as Gabriel.

It had been an easy habit to fall back into when he - got home. He didn't have all that many treasured possessions left to worry about. Starfleet had taken care of that, destroying more or less everything he'd had in storage. And the Other him had destroyed everything else long before that.

The only thing he missed were the photographs. It would have been reassuring to know that at least some of his memories were real.

His therapist had suggested that a few personal touches might help him settle in. That had been nine years ago. He'd just … never got round to it.

She'd stopped suggesting it, after a while.

So. Sofa. Console. Media screen on the wall. Bookshelf, half empty, with the handful of volumes that had somehow, miraculously, survived the purge of his personal effects. Kitchen, mostly unused except for the replicator. Wardrobe: shirts, sensible; trousers, sensible; boots, sensible. Bed.

Gabriel stood in the doorway of his bedroom and squinted at the bed in question.

He always found, on nights like this, nights when the nostalgia threatened to choke him, that sleeping in his bed was impossible. It was too big, and too soft. Like he could fall endlessly through it and never be found again.

He back-tracked to the lounge and curled up on the sofa instead, folded his jacket neatly under his head, and didn’t so much dream as remember.

*

Gabriel woke up the next morning, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The sun streamed obnoxiously through the gaps in the curtains and stung his eyes. The little purple birds sang obnoxiously from their perch outside his window, each note like a knife in his skull.

He was getting too old for this.

“Water,” he barked at the replicator, which whirred obnoxiously in reply, like it was casting judgement on him.

Gabriel rubbed his neck while he waited. Sleeping on the sofa had been a bad idea. Why had he--

Right. Same reason he’d been drinking.

The water didn’t help much, because the feeling in his stomach wasn’t just because of the hangover, but he ordered another all the same.

The lounge was immaculate save for his jacket, moulded to the shape of his head on the sofa. He picked it up and shook it out, smoothing out the creases before he hung it back up. As he did so, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor, like the final, sad piece of confetti after a parade.

Gabriel’s back complained the whole way down as he crouched to retrieve it.

The fortune. He’d forgotten all about it.

“Computer,” he called, an involuntary grunt escaping him as he straightened back up.

He hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, even. He just remembered that it had seemed … important, somehow.

The computer chirped expectantly.

“Run quote: ‘ _In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd’._ Two d’s.”

Gabriel rubbed the pad of his thumb against the paper while the computer worked.

_“No full matches. Assess partial matches?”_

“No, no,” he murmured. He hadn’t really expected there to be anything. “That’s fine.”

Gabriel stared at the words without really reading them.

His memory of the previous evening was hazy. There’d been a voice - male? Deep, certainly. But the bar was busy. There’d been lots of voices. What had been so special about--

His name. He’d heard his _name._

It was a calling card.

“Computer, search database for name ‘Mudd’. Two d’s, again.”

A longer pause, this time.

_“Search returned a large number of results. Revise parameters?”_

“Living individuals only.”

_“Search returned a large--”_

“Show me.”

The computer buzzed, unimpressed by Gabriel’s decision, but transferred the data to his console all the same.

Gabriel stared bleakly at the thousands of results.

Well. Had to start somewhere, right?

It would be a damn sight easier if he knew what he was looking for, of course. And if the inside of his skull didn’t feel like the aftermath of a Risian rave.

“Coffee. Black. Strong.”

Better. More awake, anyway.

Damn. There really were a lot of results.

“Computer, arrange by--” By what? Height? Shoe size? “--location. Nearest to furthest from here.”

Gabriel hadn't been off-planet since arriving at Dj’reek. It wasn't that it was forbidden - he wasn't a _prisoner,_ as Starfleet were so keen to remind him. But he might as well have been. Travel was … difficult, now. Too many enclosed spaces. Too little control, now that he wasn't the one in command. Too much quiet, with too many memories.

So. Nearest to furthest. With a preference for nearest.

The computer chirped. Rather smugly, Gabriel felt. _Told you so._

He leaned forward, watching the records rearrange themselves on the screen.

“Alright,” he murmured. “What have we got?”

_Gabriel strode out on to the bridge and into the blare of red alert sirens._

_“Good question.” Commander Angharad Jones joined him at the_ Buran' _s viewscreen, PADD in hand. She tapped a few times, pulling up a file. “We’re analysing now, but early reports suggest … a bloody big ship, heading right for us. Sir.”_

_“Any idea what they want?”_

_“Not yet. They’re not very talkative, apparently.”_

_“I want--”_

_“We’re running all standard Federation greetings, and in the meantime Xhao is cross-referencing all databases to see if she can pick up enough of the lingo that we can have a little chat with them.”_

_“Good. And--”_

_“Graav is running weapons analyses, and Landry has Security on full alert should they turn hostile.”_

_“And--”_

_“Hazell’s keeping engines hot, just in case we need to beat a hasty retreat.”_

_“Anything else?” Gabriel asked once he was sure she was finished, raising an amused eyebrow._

_Jones blew out her cheeks and shrugged._

_“Not much, sir. Put your feet up and have a coffee while we wait, I’d say.”_

The silence in Gabriel’s apartment was stifling, all of a sudden.

He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, hard, like he could rub the memories away.

It was just him, this time. But it was still good advice.

More coffee.

Gabriel filtered out a few more categories - he felt fairly confident that a kid couldn’t have masterminded this, so he kept results to legal adults - and was left with … a lot of records.

He sighed. In the absence of a team of experts, he’d have to improvise.

Start with the first result, keep going until something leaped out at him. That seemed sound.

A couple of hours and a throbbing headache later, he was beginning to regret this tactic.

He could take a break. Should take a break. Take a shower, at least. But this - for the first time in years, Gabriel had something that felt _important_ , even if it didn’t quite make sense. If he looked away now, for even a moment, it might all disappear.

And then - there it was. Like spotting an unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye. He sat bolt upright, senses on red alert.

_… confirmed that Harcourt Fenton 'Harry' Mudd absconded from a high security Starfleet facility this week. Mudd, convicted of a number of offences including people trafficking, drug smuggling and identity theft, is now believed to be at large…_

There were dozens of stories like it, now that Gabriel pulled at the thread, from all corners of the quadrant. And there was a theme woven through all of them, beyond the lurid details of Mudd’s exploits.

_Starfleet._

Gabriel’s hands were shaking again. He wrapped his arms around himself to try and disguise it, embarrassed.

And then he realised, slowly, that this wasn't anxiety. It wasn't the feeling that caught up with him in crowded spaces, or followed him in footsteps down dark streets, or smothered him with the weight of memories he couldn’t control. This was a much older feeling, one he’d almost forgotten. One that started in the soles of his feet and made his heart feel too big in his chest and throbbed like a drumbeat in his ears.

This was the thrill of the chase. The unknown. Adventure. Like before.

There was a bloody big ship heading right for him, and he could either face it head-on, or turn and run.

Gabriel considered the grainy file photograph of Mudd on his screen, the word _‘WANTED’_ glowing blue across his face.

The guy was a criminal. There was no doubt about it. The sensible thing would be to close the file, throw the fortune in the recycler, and forget about the whole thing. The sensible thing would be to not get involved with - whatever was going on here. Take a couple painkillers, sleep off this damn hangover, call his therapist and get back to his safe, sensible routine on Dj'reek.

The drumbeat in his head pounded.

Gabriel did not do the sensible thing.

"Computer," he said instead, mouth dry. "Search Starfleet records for Harcourt Fenton Mudd."

A few minutes later, Gabriel found himself staring at a list of misdeeds longer than an Andorian historical epic and twice as sordid. Mudd’s offences stretched back nearly two decades, and seemed to become more outrageous the further Gabriel read on: attempted hijack of a Starfleet vessel, a raid on a Betazoid bank, manufacturing dozens of androids in his likeness in order to evade arrest and capitalise on a hefty bounty on his head, and--

Gabriel leaned so close to the screen that his eyes began to sting.

 **_2256_ ** _[REDACTED]_

2256\. When the missing years in Gabriel’s own records began. Just like they did in Pippa’s and Kat’s.

He grabbed the news articles he’d downloaded to his PADD and rifled through them again, looking for another pattern. Mudd was nothing short of prolific. There were stories from every year for almost twenty years.

Except 2256.

Something important. He'd been looking for something important. And it was _right there_.

"OK, Mudd. I'm listening," Gabriel murmured. Now all he had to do was figure out what he was trying to tell him--

The file flickered out and disappeared.

“What the hell?” Gabriel gave the console the most technical of thumps. The screen remained steadfastly blank. “Computer - recall previous record.”

_“Unable to comply.”_

“We were just looking at it!”

_“Command not recognised.”_

“Computer,  _why_ can’t you access the previous record?” Gabriel sighed.

_“File has been locked.”_

Gabriel hesitated.

“Computer,” he said slowly, “who locked the file?”

_“File locked by Starfleet Command HQ.”_

Gabriel sat back. He’d been looking for a sign to convince him that he was on the right path.

And that just might have been it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some ways, this fic is an alternative ending to The Buran (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14124849). Not the alternative I’d have preferred, but there we go. It’s not at all necessary to have read that fic before reading this one (a few names and the same handwavy headcanon about how Gabriel made it back from the Mirrorverse are probably the only carry-overs), but if you would prefer the ‘Kat lives’ version of the story … it’s there, is what I’m saying.
> 
> I stole and then mangled the name for Gabriel’s new home from one of my favourite Scottish words, ‘dreich’ (meaning dreary or bleak). 
> 
> And I previously wrote about what happened to Gabriel’s belongings in Personal Effects (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870618) - but I imagined that, following Kat’s death, even the items she tried to rescue would have been destroyed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating - Real Life has been happening a lot, lately.
> 
> This chapter contains more references to alcohol and a brief PTSD flashback.

**_Personnel File - Georgiou, Philippa_ **

**_Status:_ ** _Deceased_

 **_Current location:_ ** _N/A_

**_Service record:_ **

_[...]_ **_2256.4_ ** _Presumed killed in action_ **_2256.11_ ** _Rescued from Klingon captivity_ **_2256.11_ ** _Assumed temporary command of [REDACTED]_ **_2257.1_ ** _Retired._

_-Starfleet Personnel Logs, accessed 2261.7 by LORCA, G._

_*_

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED 2261.7.14.21:27<< _

**_TO:_ ** _Pike, Captain C._

 **_FROM:_ ** _Lorca, G._

 **_SECURITY:_ ** _HIGH_

_Chris,_

_Did you get my last message? I need to see you._

_I don't know who else to ask. Please._

_G_

_ >>MESSAGE DELETED<< _

* * *

 

**_Dj’reek, 2270_ **

 

In the end, Gabriel decided to sleep on it, out of practicality more than anything else.

He really was very hungover. 

He was relieved to find, when he emerged from his self-made pit of shame and regret the following morning, that his fumbling deductions still held up in the cold light of day. 

Now all he had to do was figure out how to actually _find_ Mudd. 

Gabriel decided against running further database searches. Starfleet had already taken enough notice of his investigations to lock down Mudd’s official records; he had no particular interest in attracting any more of their attention than he already had. He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. Boots on the ground.

Well. It had started at the bar. That seemed as good a reason as any to begin his search there. 

He’d steer clear of the whisky, this time.

The bar was empty this early in the day, shutters drawn against the sun, allowing just a few stripes of dust-filled light to criss-cross the room. Gabriel disturbed one of the row of stools lined neatly at the bar, the scrape of it against the floor like a klaxon in the silence. The barkeeper looked up, dismayed at the prospect of a quiet shift ruined.

Gabriel ordered a beer he didn’t particularly want, figuring it would give him a reason to stay there, pestering the barkeeper.

“Nice day, huh?” he said, perched awkwardly on the edge of a stool designed to be comfortable for more or less any posterior except a human’s. 

The barkeeper’s spiracles relaxed, and xe exhaled in what was unmistakably exasperation. Not a big talker, then. Neither was Gabriel. This would be fun. 

"Hey, uh, Clack," he tried, after a long and uncomfortable pause. “It _is_ Clack, right?

Xe gave up and turned to face him at last.

"Xxkhlkkk," Xxkhlkkk corrected him primly.

"Zzclack," Gabriel amended, stumbling over pronunciation not intended for human vocal chords. Possibly _any_ vocal chords.

"Xxkhl _kkk_. It ishh a very chommon name, on my hhome plhanet. "

“Zzcl _ack_ ,” Gabriel valiantly tried again. 

"Closhe enougghh."

Gabriel pushed a PADD towards xir. The grainy photos of Mudd he’d been able to find were worse than useless, but they’d have to do.

"I’m looking for someone. Guy called Mudd. That mean anything to you?"

“Neffer heard of them.”

“He was here. Night before last,” Gabriel insisted, jabbing a finger at the clearest of the bunch. “Recognise him?”

Xxkhlkkk huffed through xir thorax again and leaned over to spare the photo a cursory glance.

Xe stopped abruptly, antennae stiffening into angry slants.

_Kadis-kot._

"Ffffriend offf yoursh?" xe asked, the crackle and hiss of xir vocal implant lending an ominous tone to xir words.

“I’m going to go with ‘no’,” Gabriel replied carefully.

"I shhhuggesht you kkheep it that way." The bristles that framed the lower half of xir face, the ones that Gabriel couldn’t help but think of as a particularly distinguished moustache, well - bristled, and xe half-turned from Gabriel to pour a drink for xirself with xir right hands, something dark and sticky-looking. “Hhwhat did you call hhim?”

“Mudd. Harcourt Fenton Mudd.”

Xe shook xir head.

“That <UNTRANSLATABLE> is named Jhim Khirkh.” Xir turn to struggle with unfamiliar sounds. “And he oweshh me a shhuttle.”

Jim Kirk. What kind of stupid made up name was that?

“Is that so?” Gabriel replied mildly.

“<UNTRANSLATABLE>,” Xxkhlkkk muttered again, and dunked xir proboscis into the gloop, slurping forlornly.

“Sounds rough.” Gabriel tilted his glass to xir and raised his eyebrows, the universal sign for a top-up. He didn’t really want another drink, but he sensed that a show of solidarity might win Xxkhlkkk’s heart. If xe even had a heart, and if it was an appropriate organ to attempt to win over, that was. He was a bit fuzzy on the specifics of xir structure. And Xxkhlkkk was just … fuzzy.

“You hafff no idhea,” xe lamented, handing him a fresh beer.

“Seems to me,” Gabriel said, inspecting the contents of his glass, his voice a careful study in innocence, “that we could help each other.” Xxkhlkkk’s head tilted, and xe strigilated questioningly. “Mu- uh, _Kirk_ has something of yours. And he has - something I want, too. Help me find him, and I’ll … give him your regards.”

Xxkhlkkk finished xir drink and considered Gabriel through xir huge compound eyes, thoughtful. Gabriel stared back, unblinking, hands folded on the bar top in front of him, ready to disguise the tremor that was sure to follow. He was surprised when it didn’t come. 

The barkeeper would have been fed the same story about Gabriel as everyone else on Dj’reek. Would have heard the same rumours. Would be wondering how many of them were true, and just what this washed-up old human in the sensible shirt was capable of. 

Just for once, Gabriel was content to let xir wonder. Xe didn’t need to know that the rumours were about another man entirely. Or that Gabriel had sworn off violence after his time - There. 

Just for once, the Other Him was useful. 

“Very well,” Xxkhlkkk said at last. “We haff a deal, Misshter Lhorcha.”

Xxkhlkkk, it transpired, did not know where to find Mudd - or Jim Kirk, or whatever ridiculous alias he was using. But Xxkhlkkk _did_ know someone who knew someone who knew someone who _might_ know, and xe was only too happy for Gabriel to take along a message for Mudd, describing in anatomically improbable but nonetheless colourful terms the things Xxkhlkkk would do if xe ever set eyes on him again.

Gabriel followed the trail of informers for the best part of a week. This was, he noted grimly,  falling exhausted into bed after his third day of talking to strangers, probably his quota of socialising for the next few months. His therapist would be impressed by how far he’d strayed from his routine. So long as he didn’t admit that it was because he was following secret messages hidden in a fortune cookie slip. 

Fortunately, his persistence paid off before his patience wore out. He landed, finally, on an address.

Mudd - someone fitting Mudd's description, at least - was here. On Dj’reek. 

Another coincidence.

The thing about space, Gabriel mused, was that it was - _space._ It was big. Too big for coincidences. 

Mudd _wanted_ to be found.

The address was the other side of the colony, far from the right side of town, insofar as Dj’reek _had_ a right side. Gabriel left his communicator, with its reassuring tether to normality and its panic line to Security, at the apartment - couldn’t risk being tracked - and took a transporter as far as he dared. Anything too far out of his usual pattern of behaviour would trigger an alert with Starfleet. He’d go the rest of the way on foot and navigate by landmarks. No maps.

His therapist probably wouldn’t approve of his paranoia, either. Looked like there were a lot of things he’d be leaving out of their next conversation. 

This part of town didn’t seem to have got the memo about summer. Or construction regulations. The structures - _buildings_  didn’t really cover the haphazard jumble of grey shapes that crowded the narrow streets - were packed so tightly together that Gabriel had to crane his neck to see the pink of the sky. Grimy lanes criss-crossed and branched and looped and stopped in abrupt, trash-filled dead ends. 

 _Nice place for a criminal empire,_ Gabriel thought. 

Or an ambush.

He pressed on, twisting occasionally to look up at the crack of light above him, checking that the sun was still at his back, the only way he could be sure he was heading in the right direction, and tried to shake the feeling that he was moving ever closer to the centre of a spider’s web.

No wonder Xxkhlkkk didn’t want to go after Mudd xirself, giant interstellar fly-thing that xe was. It was probably hardwired into xir biology.  

The address, it turned out, was a warehouse. Squat, grey, underwhelming in almost every regard, as filth-encrusted and crumbling as the buildings that surrounded it.

Gabriel didn't really know what he'd imagined a criminal's hideout would look like. Gun turrets and security sehlats? Gargoyles? A drawbridge?

He'd spent long enough There to know that it wasn't the places with insignia and flags that you had to worry about. The places that advertised what they stood for were symbols. Shows of strength.

It was the places that _didn't_ announce what went on inside their walls that you had to worry about.

Staring up at the edifice, Gabriel realised that he had absolutely no idea what happened next. Ring the doorbell? _Good morning, I’m here for my appointment with wanted criminal Harcourt Fenton Mudd?_

There were no cameras that Gabriel could see - he couldn’t imagine that any of the locals would be that thrilled at the prospect of being caught on film - but he kept his head low anyway as he picked over the graveyard of scrap that littered the way to the entrance and hoped he’d have a better idea by the time he reached the door. 

He didn’t, so he ... rang the bell.

Nothing happened. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. At least he hadn’t tripped the security system. But Gabriel was still left with the problem of being firmly outside a place that he wanted to be inside.

He stalked around the perimeter, trying to get a clearer picture of the layout, careful of his footing on the uneven ground.

A cracked window just above shoulder-height winked invitingly at him.

It would, Gabriel reflected as he wrapped his jacket around his arm, be a monumentally stupid idea to smash the rest of it in and climb inside.

The glass gave way with a satisfying _crunch._

"Whoops," he murmured to himself, brushing aside the remaining shards from the ledge and laying his jacket along it.

Heaving himself up was more effort than Gabriel cared to admit. 

Just out of shape, that was all, he told himself, as he landed in a heap on the other side of the window.

After a completely reasonable pause to catch his breath, Gabriel shook himself off, clambered to his feet, and took stock of his surroundings. 

This room had probably been an office at one time, back when someone optimistically believed that legitimate business might take place here. Now, it was covered in as much junk as there was outside, scraps and coils of metal and broken tech pulled high on the desks. There was a thick coating of dust on the floor. Undisturbed, save for the marks left by Gabriel's landing and footprints.

Maybe Mudd had already moved on?

Only one way to find out.

The door only slid about halfway open before sticking, and Gabriel had to apply a little helpful force for the second time that day to get it the rest of the way. 

Still nothing. No alarms, no shouts, no signs of life. Just yet more - stuff, organised into piles, the system of which Gabriel couldn't figure out.

The thing that really caught his eye, though, was the corner of the long, heavy storage trunk that was only partly obscured by the junk strategically placed on top of it, conspicuous by how - new it looked, compared to everything else.

Gabriel crouched to get a better look. At this level, it almost came up to Gabriel's shoulder. It was heavily reinforced, the sides so thick that they sounded solid when he rapped his knuckles on it, with high security bio-code locks. 

Last time he'd seen something like this, it had been in the armoury of the Imperial Palace. There. 

He shuddered, and brushed a thumb over the lock, watching the display light up at his touch.

And then everything went red.

It took Gabriel a couple of seconds to realise why.

" _Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Intruder alert."_ The security system's voice was jarringly calm, compared to the screech of the sirens that accompanied it.

"Oh, come _on…"_ Gabriel groaned, climbing to his feet, bracing for whatever came next.

" _Intruder alert. Intruder alert--"_

“Hey!"

A furious clatter of - something, from behind one of the piles of junk, and then scuffling footsteps of someone bearing down on his position.

“I just want to talk--” Gabriel began, and then stopped short, uncertain all over again as a figure rounded the corner, glowing red under the security lights. 

If this _was_ Mudd, the grainy photos that Gabriel had uncovered were a good decade out of date. The man was stout, round face framed with a scruffy beard running riot under thinning hair. He wore a battered leather waistcoat over a flowing shirt that had seen better days, but his fingers were encrusted with ostentatiously large rings, which seemed incongruous against the general disrepair and shabbiness that surrounded him. The overall effect was one of a faded pirate from a cheap holonovel. It didn’t exactly fill Gabriel with a great deal of confidence.

“Look, old man," he growled, tapping a command on his wrist-PADD to silence the blaring of the alarms, "I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t just barge in he--”

The man’s breath left him mid-word, colour draining from his cheeks. His eyes met Gabriel’s, darted over his face like he was making rapid calculations, and then widened in horror.

" _You,_ " he breathed. 

Gabriel’s heart sank. 

This had become a familiar routine, back on Earth. Part of the reason Starfleet had wanted him off-planet as quickly as they could manage. Too much risk of being recognised by someone with a grudge. Too much risk of awkward questions. Too much risk of causing a scene. 

That kind of reaction only ever meant one thing. They’d met before. 

Or, at least, this man _thought_ they’d met before. Which was usually worse.

Gabriel spread his hands, placatingly. 

"I'm not looking for any trouble," he started.

He reacted to the phaser that suddenly appeared in the man's hands before he'd even really registered it. He dived to the side as a shot whistled through the space where he'd been standing, toppling one of the tables of junk as a makeshift shield as he went.

His instincts were a little sharper than his reflexes, though, and he landed awkwardly, hip protesting at the sudden effort.

Damnit. Getting too old for this--

"I can kill you again, Lorca!" the man bellowed. "I've had plenty of practice--"

A shot skimmed over the top of the upturned table, close enough that Gabriel could smell burning.

What the _hell_ had he - the Other Him - done to provoke this kind of welcome?

"Are you Mudd?" he yelled back.

"You want to make it fifty-seven times? Fine!" Another shot. "But no resets this time--"

" _Are you Mudd_?" Gabriel tried again, desperate, pressed low against the table.

As the man’s wild shots ranged nearer, Gabriel suddenly felt very alone, with his communicator miles away, no way to call for help - suddenly realised that no one knew where he was, that he’d wandered into a criminal’s lair with no back up, that he could die here alone--

_Shots burned overhead. They were getting closer. Zeroing in on their location._

_A cry of pain to Gabriel’s left, stifled too late, drew more fire, more than could possibly be needed. Silence, for just a second. Then the next barrage tore up the ground just metres ahead of Gabriel, and he was forced to throw his arm across his face to try and protect his eyes from the blare of phaser fire._

_They wouldn’t kill him. Nothing so merciful as that. They’d kill what was left of his unit, then track their camp, destroy that, burn it all to the ground, but they’d take_ him _alive, take him back to that cell with the drugs and the interrogations and the endless suffocating silence and then, maybe, maybe if he was really lucky, a guard would get careless, hit him one too many times, and he could die before he went completely insane--_

Gabriel gripped the table leg, hard. Deep calming breaths, just like he’d been taught, even while the memories tumbled and whirled and congealed into new horrors. Tried to ground himself in this moment, here. Now.  

He wasn't There. He hadn’t died There. And he had no intention of dying here, on fucking _Dj’reek,_ with some jumped-up scrap merchant taking pot shots at him.

The Fleet wouldn't let Gabriel carry arms, not anymore - not that he would have wanted to even if they had - but, Gabriel realised, foggily, as his surroundings came swimming back into focus, there was plenty of heavy-looking junk he could use as missiles, if he could just reach far enough--

But the next shot didn't come. Just a long, baffled silence.

"What do you mean, 'am I Mudd'?" the man echoed. Gabriel could hear the note of confusion in his voice and seized on it.

"I'm looking for someone called Mudd. I have-- I think he tried to send me a message. About something important."

"You _think_?" the man sounded incredulous. 

"It's-- complicated. Are you Mudd?" Gabriel repeated, mouth dry. "Or do you know where I can find him?"

Another pause. 

Gabriel’s palms were slick with sweat. He could have sworn that he could hear his own heart thumping against his ribcage, in the quiet that followed.

"You know, I'm a little _hurt_ , Gabe."

Gabriel gulped another breath and risked a look from behind the table. The man had holstered his phaser and was standing, hands on hips, with a chagrined expression on his face.

"I'm the one who got shot at," Gabriel countered. "Let's call it even."

He clambered to his feet, cautiously, taking care of his aching hip as much as his unpredictable new associate. He kept his eyes on the man’s hands, making certain that phaser stayed exactly where it was, and did his best to ignore the pounding in his head.

He was damned if he’d let this asshole see just how shook up he was. 

The litany of things he wouldn’t be telling his therapist about was becoming an epic. 

“OK. I think we got off on the wrong foot there,” he said, holding out his own hands again to show he wasn’t armed. “Let’s start again, huh? Maybe with you explaining how you know my name?”

“Gabriel. _Gabe._ Gabe, Gabe, Gabe. I thought we had something special. Am I _really_ so forgettable?”

Shit. _What_ had the other him done?

“How about you refresh my memory?” Gabriel asked, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. 

The man frowned, then started forward, hesitantly. He scrutinised Gabriel like he was an unexploded mine he’d stumbled across, leaning in to peer at him more closely but keeping a safe distance. Gabriel saw the man’s eyes flicker to the scars that radiated from the tips of his fingers. Watched as he took in the pale lines that wove and criss-crossed like a map over his hands before disappearing beneath the cuffs of his shirt. Flinched when he caught the slight tremor that Medical hadn’t been able to completely fix. 

Gabriel balled his hands into fists in an attempt to disguise it. 

“What happened to you, Lorca?” the man breathed, with a kind of morbid curiosity.

Gabriel tensed.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, feeling the official line drop into place automatically and loathing how easily it came to him. “I had an accident. Amnesia. I lost a lot of the last few years. Damn near all of it, actually. Don’t take it personally. Yours isn’t the only face I’ve forgotten.”

Not recognising someone at all was better, generally, Gabriel had found. Better than recognising someone for all the wrong reasons, at least. Better than recognising someone from your nightmares.  

“Hit your head, did you?” the man asked. He was quite close now. Gabriel was glad the table was still between them.  

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Must’ve been bad." 

Gabriel took a step back, instinctively. He found that he didn’t much like being too near this guy. It felt too much like being trapped.

“Wasn’t great, no.”

The man scratched around in his scraggy beard, dislodging drifts of dandruff that caught the grimy light as they floated to the ground.

Something in the man’s expression shifted minutely. Mind made up.

“Well, then,” he said brightly, and flashed Gabriel a toothy grin. “Looks like we get a chance to reset after all.” 

He stuck out an abrupt, oily, hand. Gabriel accepted it, warily, and his arm was nearly wrenched from its socket with the enthusiasm of the handshake that followed. 

“Mudd. Harcourt Fenton Mudd. But you, Gabe--”

“Don’t call me Gabe--”

“-- you can call me Harry, Gabe.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Personnel File - Cornwell, Katrina_ **

**_Status:_ ** _Deceased_

_ <<CONNECTION TERMINATED BY USER>> _

_-Starfleet Personnel Logs, accessed 2261.7 by LORCA, G._

_*_

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED 2261.7.22.04:17<< _

**_TO:_ ** _Pike, Captain C._

 **_FROM:_ ** _Lorca, G._

 **_SECURITY:_ ** _NONE_

_FUck you, Pike. Fuck you, you high ans mighty fuck. Think youre too goo d to even reply to me now? I thought yuo’d uderstand. Fuck you.._

_ >>MESSAGE DELETED<< _

* * *

 

**_Dj’reek, 2270_ **

 

Gabriel allowed Mudd to lead him deeper into the bowels of the warehouse. He trailed along behind him, dazed, head still thumping with the aftermath of his flashback, and did his best to focus. 

Something was off about this - well, all of it was _off,_ but something was even more off than the rest of it. Problem was, between his hip and his head and his fight or flight reflexes going into overdrive, he was having a hard time figuring out what it was.

A flickering lamp illuminated a kitchen that had seen better days.

"Pardon the mess, Gabe," Mudd said airily, spotting Gabriel's expression. "I don't get much opportunity to entertain, these days."

"It's Gabriel," Gabriel murmured, stepping a safe distance away from a heap of dirty dishes, the contents of which had been there for so long that they may actually have evolved to achieve sentience. "And it's … fine."

"Coffee, Gabe?"

" _Gabriel._ And no. Thanks."

"It's only replicated, I'm afraid, but it does the job," Mudd continued, breezily, as though he hadn't heard him. "Sugar, Gabe?"

“That’s not my name--” 

_Gabriel frowned at the PADD in front of him, and pushed it back across the desk. The officer regarded it impassively._

_“I took the liberty of preparing a new identity for you,” he said smoothly, languid dark eyes meeting Gabriel's._

_Gabriel couldn’t remember what he’d introduced himself as - Tyrell? Tyrone? There had been so many of them lately, each progressively more stern and important than the last. This one was so important that a uniform wasn’t necessary, it seemed, long limbs poured instead into black leather that couldn't possibly be regulation, a stark contrast against the new, garish colours that festooned Starfleet these days._

_For all his carefully assembled air of confidence, though, the strategically mussed-up hair, the wide, calm stance, the measured tone, this guy was - nervous, eyes flicking every time Gabriel shifted, sat just far enough away that he would have time to react in the event that he lashed out._

_Gabriel caught sight of himself in the reflection of the screen that, although dark, was no doubt recording every word of their conversation. Hunched, almost shrinking into the uncomfortable briefing room chair, gripping the desk between them like it was a life raft._

_Nothing much to be afraid of._

_“You’ll find everything in order. Documents, backstory--”_

_“That’s not my name,” Gabriel repeated._

_“Given recent - events, in the interests of your own safety we felt that a cover identity would be approp--"_

_“I lived another man’s life for five years,” Gabriel said. He’d intended it to be pointed, the same tone that would have had his crew snapping to attention, once upon a time. But somewhere in between the thought and the words forming, they turned - desperate. “Let me keep my own goddamn name.”_

_“We only have your best interests at heart--”_

_“Please,” Gabriel said, and hated himself for it._

_The officer considered him for a long moment, stroking a hand along his bearded jawline absently. Gabriel thought, for just a second, he saw something soften in his expression. But if it did, it was gone so quickly that he couldn’t be certain._

_“Alright,” he said eventually. “If you're sure, Mr Lorca.”_

_Mr Lorca._ Mr _Lorca. Gabriel felt the loss of his title as sharply as a boot into his ribs. Mr Lorca the civilian. Mr Lorca who would never set foot on a starship again. Mr Lorca the inconvenience, the spanner in the plasma conduits, the awkward truth that the Fleet had to pack up and hide away._

 _And this asshole thought he was being polite_. _Thought Gabriel would be_ grateful.  

 _Mr_ _Lorca._

Mudd paid little attention to Gabriel’s protestations, punching an order into a battered replicator. Gabriel suspected it was best not to remark on the scuffed spots on its casing, or how they were in exactly the places where one might expect to find a Starfleet insignia if, for example, some enterprising person hadn’t taken a chisel to it.

“So, Gabe. That bump to the head. What, uh - what _do_ you remember?” Mudd asked, too casually, as he worked. 

 _Too much,_ Gabriel thought. 

“Not much _,_ ” he said instead, sticking to the script. “I remember the _Buran._ After that…” He shrugged, feigning Mudd’s nonchalance. “It’s a blur. Why don’t you remind me; exactly how do we know each other, Harcourt?”

“ _Harry,_ Gabe--”

“ _Not Gabe_ \--”

“-- _Harry,_ please." Mudd waved a dismissive hand. "That’s all stars under the hull now. But let’s just say ... we go way back, you and I.” 

That was an ‘it’s complicated’ if ever Gabriel had heard one. And he ought to know. 

Mudd passed him a mug of something that might have been coffee, if you squinted. Much like the replicator it had come from, Gabriel realised he really, really didn’t want to ask.

Mudd leaned against a cupboard that creaked ominously and folded his arms, frowning at Gabriel critically. 

“Gabe,” he sighed at last. “You got _old.”_

Gabriel bit back the first, colourful response that sprang to mind.

“Happens to all of us,” he said, instead. “If we’re lucky.”

If he was being honest, Gabriel didn’t mind the grey hair, or the extra lines on his face, or that his knees made noises when he stood up these days. He hadn’t counted on staying alive long enough for any of that to become a problem. Hadn’t counted on staying alive at all, for a while.

“Speak for yourself,” Mudd said grandly, smoothing down what was left of his hair. A hipflask was produced from somewhere, appearing in Mudd’s hands like a stashed card in a cheap conjuring trick. He poured a generous glug into his own coffee and then inclined the flask at Gabriel, questioningly. Gabriel shook his head - as tempting as it was to try and take the edge off his nerves, he wanted to keep all his wits about him so far as Mudd was concerned. 

The strategist in Gabriel wondered whether that was a sign that Mudd was more rattled than he looked. And why. 

Mudd, however, was the consummate showman. He shrugged exaggeratedly, took a long drag from his mug and pulled a face, shaking his head as the alcohol hit. Or maybe the coffee really was just that bad.

“Now,” he said, once he’d regained his equilibrium. “I could stand here and shoot the breeze with you all day, Gabe, but something tells me you didn’t come here on a social call.” 

“No.” 

“Ah, so it _is_ business, then.” Mudd rubbed his hands together. “Alright. What can I do for you?”

Gabriel set aside his mug, untouched. Time to see if his gamble had paid off. 

“I got your message.”

There was no faking the confusion that crossed Mudd’s face.

“What _message_?” 

“The…” Gabriel paused. Things that had seemed as clear as an Andorian spring while he was hungover were suddenly starting to fog up again.

There it was. The thing that had felt off.

Mudd hadn't shot at him because he'd set some dastardly trap for Gabriel. He'd been taken by surprise.

“I got a message. It - said that I should find you,” Gabriel finished, evasively. 

“Was it a call? Encrypted? What?”

“In person.” Not a lie, just an - economical use of the truth, but it definitely sounded less crazy than ‘a soggy bit of paper from a mystery person in a crappy bar sent me on a hare-brained quest to find an old convict’. That sounded ridiculous, even to him. "I didn’t get a good look at them, before you ask.”

Mudd paled, the mask of his bluster slipping for just a second. Just long enough for Gabriel to spot it.

He filed that away to wonder about later.

“Got a leak somewhere,” Mudd muttered, rallying.

“So - it wasn’t you?” Gabriel asked, though it almost seemed redundant now. "You didn't send it?"

“Gabe, until our recent, touching reconciliation, you were the _last_ person in the system I wanted to see. No offence.”

“None taken," Gabriel said slowly. "But - we needed to be reconciled because...?”

“It’s forgiven and forgotten,” Mudd dismissed him, more sharply than before, putting an end to that line of enquiry. “I’ve never been one to hold on to a grudge.”

 _Of course not,_ Gabriel thought, _all that shooting earlier couldn’t_ possibly _be about a_ grudge _._

Mudd drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. 

“Did your - messenger - give a reason for our cozy little rendezvous?” he asked, swallowing back another noisy gulp of maybe-coffee.

“Not in so many words. I - extrapolated.”

“And what did you … extrapolate?”

Things were unlikely to get much weirder than they already had.

Here went nothing.

“I was looking for information,” Gabriel said at last. “About some friends of mine. And I thought - you might be able to help.”

Mudd blinked. He clearly hadn’t expected that. 

“After my - accident,” Gabriel continued, deciding to power on through, like ripping off a re-gen patch, “I tried to get back in touch with the few people I remembered. I thought they might be able to help me piece together - what happened to me. Captain Philippa Georgiou. And--” He tried to ignore how her name caught in his throat, even after all this time. Easier to use her title. Easier to remember her as a colleague. "Admiral Cornwell. Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell."

_"Can I see her?"_

_Weeks, he'd been back. She must have heard by now. Gabriel didn't have any romantic notions about her waiting patiently for him to return. It wasn't like she had anything to wait patiently_ for. _Just their Arrangement, and a whole heap of unfinished business. But he'd had nothing from her. Not even a note._

_He hoped he deserved a note, at least._

_The doctor paused. It could only have been for a second or two, but it seemed to Gabriel like it opened up and stretched on forever. Long enough for his vague, unearned sense of betrayal and disappointment to give way to unease, and then fear._

_Like the pause before they’d told him about the_ Buran. 

_"I'm afraid … Vice Admiral Cornwell died in the line of duty. Some years ago, now."_

_And nothing was the same, after that._

_"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."_

_Gabriel closed his eyes, tight, and shook his head, like he could make those words go away if he tried hard enough._

_They didn't, though._

_No crew. No home. No Kat--_

_"How?" he managed, hoarse, face screwed up against lights that felt too bright, all of a sudden._

_"It's classified."_

_"What is that supposed to mean?" Gabriel thumped a fist into the bed frame so hard that it shook, not caring how it made the doctor flinch._

_"Just as I said. It's classified. I'm sorry. That's all I'm allowed to tell you."_

Gabriel swallowed. “But they - they’d died. Both of  them. Same date. And no-one seems to be able to give me a damn reason why.”

Mudd’s brow was still crumpled in incomprehension.

“That’s all very ... _sad,_ ” he said, in roughly the same sort of fastidious tone usually reserved for recollections of stepping in fresh piles of targ shit. “But this has _what_ to do with me, exactly?” He twirled a hand in the air. _Skip to the end._

“Their records are locked from 2256. Above Top Secret. Same as mine. Yours too. There’s a whole chunk missing.”

“Fascinating,” Mudd practically yawned.

“I think--” A muscle in  Gabriel’s cheek twitched, a nervous tic he’d never quite been able to shake. He’d never voiced this to anyone except his therapist, who had made her opinion about obsessing over conspiracy theories very clear, and now here he was, trying to justify it to a criminal. “I think something happened. Something big. Something that - involved all of us, somehow. Something that Starfleet doesn’t want to talk about.” 

“Did you ever think that maybe ... there’s a reason for that?” Mudd asked mildly, inspecting his fingernails. Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “You say you don’t remember any of this. Maybe they’re just - trying to spare you.” 

Gabriel scoffed.

“I doubt Starfleet classified a whole bunch of files in case they hurt my feelings.” 

He doubted very much that Mudd was trying to avoid hurting his feelings, either. 

“2256,” he pressed. “That’s when this all started. Does that mean anything to you?”

Mudd took a long drag of his coffee. Pretended to, at least. Gabriel suspected the mug was long empty.

“2256, 2256,” he murmured, then shook his head. “Can’t say that it does, Gabe, no. And I hate to disappoint you, big guy, but I’ve never even heard of your buddies. To be honest,” -- _That must be hard_ , Gabriel thought bitterly-- "I'm not really sure why your mystery messenger thought I would have." Mudd replayed that sentence back to himself, head tilted to one side. "Or, at least, why _you_ thought that your mystery messenger thought that I would have."

“I see.”

Gabriel exhaled, slow, through flared nostrils and clenched his jaw, grinding it from side to side.

Mudd was lying. Gabriel was sure of it. Mudd knew exactly what he was looking for. Why someone had sent him here. 

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said, lip curling.

He turned sharply and strode for the door.

If Mudd wouldn’t tell him what he’d been up to in 2256 - fine. Gabriel didn’t need him. It was a new lead. He could go back to Xxkhlkkk’s contacts, dig further until he found someone who _was_ willing to talk--

"Woahwoahwoah, woah." A clatter from behind Gabriel, as Mudd hastily deposited his mug somewhere in the sentient heap of dishes and scampered to catch up with Gabriel's longer steps. "Cool those engines. I said I _didn't_ know. Never said I _couldn't_ find out."

Gabriel froze, a pace away from the door.

“Why?” he asked, without looking at him.

“Let’s just say I recognise a kindred spirit when I see one,” Mudd said simply.

Gabriel bristled and wheeled around to face him.

“We are _not_ \--”

“Oh, don’t pout. Do you really mean to tell me that you moved out here for the views?” Mudd raised a smug eyebrow as Gabriel tried and failed to come up with a suitable response to that. “We’re both here because your precious Starfleet - your precious _Federation_ \- would much rather forget all about us. But you and me - we’re survivors. And I’ll always help a fellow survivor.”

“For a price.” It wasn’t a question.

Mudd pursed his lips.

“You make it sound so _sordid,_ ” he replied with carefully fabricated disgust.

“There _is_ a price, though." There always was, with people like Mudd. There was no chance the guy had suddenly seen the error of his ways and turned philanthropist.

“Now, Gabe, I won’t lie to you. I’m a businessman.” Mudd held up a hand to stifle Gabriel’s objection before it could leave his mouth. “Oh, I know - this may not look like much to you, but I’m rebuilding after a - minor setback--”

“After you skipped jail, you mean?” Gabriel interjected, tired of Mudd’s dissembling. “Save it. I’ve read the reports.”

“A _minor setback_ and a couple of relocations,” Mudd said firmly. “And besides, _Gabe,_ it sounds to me like you're not exactly in a position to be choosy. Tell me, Mr Memory - who else do you have to turn to in this, your hour of need?” 

“I…”

There was one other person. But Gabriel had burned that particular bridge years ago. 

The bastard had never replied to a single one of his messages. Never even acknowledged them. Didn’t want his perfect posterboy image to be tainted by association with him. 

Gabriel had heard a rumour that he’d retired recently. Chris Pike. Captain Starfleet himself. Retired. It seemed unlikely. He hadn’t been able to muster the energy to be curious about it, though.

Gabriel sagged, and Mudd looked triumphant. 

“You see? I’m the best you’ve got.”

Gabriel didn’t like the sound of that at all. Mostly because it was true.

“And lucky for you, I _am_ the best. But excellence comes with a price. See, what you’re asking me to find - you said yourself, it’s Above Top Secret. Classified.” Mudd’s stance, hands on hips, chin tilted, reminded Gabriel strongly of all the times Chief Engineer Cardew had tried to impress upon him exactly _how complicated and specialised_ a repair would be on the _Buran_. “And if it’s classified, that means there’s security, and if there’s security, a little … creative thinking is required. A little _panache._ What you require is an _artist._ And I, Gabe - _I_ am that artist.” 

“So what is it?” Gabriel sighed.

“Hmm?”

“The price. For your - creative thinking. What is it?” Gabriel said wearily. “I should warn you, I don’t deal in currency. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got nothing you’d be interested in.”

The Fleet hadn’t exactly been generous with their retirement plan. Berth on the shuttle off-planet to the colony. Identity chip - details heavily redacted, but enough that he could pass any security checks required. Impersonal rooms in impersonal lodgings. Carefully monitored comms. The freedom to do whatever he wanted, so long as that was exactly what they wanted him to do. 

Mudd considered him, head tilted, sucking on his upper teeth. Gabriel had the awful sensation he was being appraised. 

“Because you’re a pal, Gabe, I’ll make you a deal. Let’s call it a trade,” Mudd said eventually. “I help you, you help me.”

“What kind of help?”

“You may be aware of my recent … brush with Starfleet.”

“Which one?” Gabriel asked drily. “The one where you hijacked a starship, or the one where you got caught smuggling--”

“Were you always this pedantic?” Mudd scowled.

“You tell me.”

“ _As I was saying -_ Starfleet and I are locked in what you might call an epic battle of wits.”

“I doubt I’d call it that--”

“One in which you, Gabe, can help me gain the upper hand." 

Gabriel stared at him. 

“How?” he asked, hoarse.

“I haven’t worked out the details yet. But a big strapping former starship captain like you?” Mudd grinned. “Oh, I’ll think of a use for you, I’m sure.”

The list of Mudd’s crimes was testament to what he was already capable of. The thought of the damage he could do with Gabriel’s help--

"No." He shook his head. "No deal."

"Ugh. When did you catch _principles_ , Gabe?" Mudd's nose wrinkled. "That big old noggin of yours must have taken a bigger whack than I thought. The Gabriel Lorca I knew would never let something so trifling get in the way of what he wanted."

Gabriel flinched.

He had made deals with people like Mudd - people even worse than Mudd - again and again in the Other Place. Anything necessary to survive. To get home.

That had been different. Completely different. It didn’t mean that he was anything like - the man Mudd knew.

"I'm ... a different person now," he managed.

Mudd scoffed.

"Sure you are."

Gabriel did his best to ignore the knot in his stomach.

"No deal," he repeated. "I'm not going to help you - commit a crime."

He didn’t leave, though. Didn’t even move.  

"Just the one that suits you?" Mudd raised an eyebrow. "Come on. You tracked me down, came all the way here, broke into a warehouse - _my_ warehouse, might I remind you - asked me to help you crack into top secret files, and _this_ is where you draw the line?” 

“I took an oath when I joined Starfleet. A promise.” Gabriel had repeated it to himself, over and over and over, until the words lost all meaning. Until they became a talisman to protect him against the things he had to do to stay alive. Or maybe just a prayer for forgiveness. “My line is there.”

“A promise to give them the best years of your life, so they could abandon you as soon as you stopped being useful to them?” Mudd folded his arms. “Starfleet chewed you up and spat you out and left you to rot out here, and they didn’t even think you were worth an explanation." His eyes razed over the dendritic scars covering Gabriel’s hands. "Didn't even bother to fix you up properly. You owe them nothing."

Gabriel thought about the redacted identity chip. The impersonal room. The monitored comms. The freedom to do whatever Starfleet wanted him to do.

“One-time offer, Gabe.” Mudd spread his hands. “You go now, and I’ll be a whole lot harder to find the next time you need me.”

Gabriel thought about Pippa.

Thought about Kat--

He closed his eyes.

“Alright,” he muttered. 

"I'm sorry?" Mudd cupped his ear and leaned forward. "I didn't _quite_ catch that, Gabe--"

"I said _alright_ ," Gabriel snapped, his words reverberating around the space. He exhaled slowly. "You help me. And I'll - I'll help you."

Mudd beamed and engulfed Gabriel's hand in yet another bone-crushing handshake. 

"Welcome aboard, partner." Mudd’s eyes glinted. “Harry Mudd and Gabriel Lorca. Who'd have thought it? Oh, we are going to make _such_ a good team, you and I."

Gabriel focused on massaging some feeling back into his hand, slow and deliberate, one knuckle at a time. Anything to avoid thinking about what he had just done. 

It didn’t make him anything like the Other Him. It didn’t.

Maybe, if he told himself that enough times, he might start believing it. 

“What now?” he muttered. The hope he’d dared to allow to bubble up, that this was the day he'd get some answers, the day everything started to make sense, felt like a dead weight around his neck now.

“Well, first of all, if we’re going to be teammates, you’re going to have to work on that little impatient streak of yours.  You can’t rush art, Gabe. I’ll let you know when I’m good and ready, don’t you worry about that.”

Gabriel looked at Mudd from under a heavy brow.

“How?” he asked. “Everything I do is monitored. All my comms.”

Mudd rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Mysterious messages, monitored comms … you could have led them right to me. It’s a miracle they haven’t already landed a prison shuttle on my doorstep. Anything _else_ you need to tell me?” Gabriel glowered at him, and Mudd leaned forward to pat his hand gently. “Oh, don’t worry, Gabe. I made rookie mistakes my first time out, too. You’ll learn. In the meantime, step this way.”

Mudd led Gabriel back into the main warehouse and disappeared between one of the rows of junk. After a few paces, the only way Gabriel could keep track of him was by the sound of small landslides of boxes and the cursing that drifted over to him. 

“Ah-ha!”

Surfacing like a diver from a wreck, Mudd suddenly rose into view. When he reached Gabriel again, he was holding a pair of scuffed, roughly box-shaped devices. They were somewhere between the size of a communicator and a tricorder, but heavy and primitively made, all chunky dials and clumsy buttons. He passed one to Gabriel.

“This is a _ray-dee-oh,_ ” he explained, emphasising the syllables as if Gabriel were a small child. “You turn this--” 

“Yeah. I know.”

Gabriel turned it over in his hand, ignoring Mudd’s curious stare.

“You can’t remember vast swathes of your life, but you know how to use a radio?” Mudd said, forehead creasing in disbelief. 

Gabriel wished that he didn’t. It had been years, but he remembered like it was yesterday.

Like every other bit of equipment in the rebels’ kit, communications had operated on a long-outdated system. In this case, _centuries_ out of date. But therein, perversely, lay the advantage. Imperial scanners didn't bother with the ancient earth frequencies the radios utilised. The quality was terrible, the range pathetic, the signal frequently thwarted by the mere existence of walls. The entire system should have been about as secure as opening the windows and yelling their plans across to the Imperial forces. But none of the Emperor's lackies ever thought to listen.

He wondered whether they’d ever been found out.

“Memory’s a strange thing,” he said evasively.

“That’s not the only strange thing around here,” Mudd said in a mutter that Gabriel was sure he was supposed to hear. He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder, all smiles. “Well, Gabe, as the old saying goes - don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

*

Weeks passed, but Mudd did not call. 

Gabriel had set the radio next to his console, where it sat, silent, for so long that he wondered at first whether Mudd would ever find anything, then whether it had all been an elaborate hoax, then started to forget to wonder at all as it began to blend in, became part of the everyday backdrop of his apartment.

Summer on Dj’reek, never particularly reliable and always gone too soon, was already on the turn on the morning that a sudden, familiar noise jolted Gabriel awake.

“ _Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzchhhhhhhhhh_ \--”

It took him a few moments to remember where he was. Bed. Wardrobe. Curtains. His. Safe.

It took him a few moments more to remember why he was hearing that sound.

“ _Cccccccccchhhhhhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzz--”_

Gabriel skidded into the living room and grabbed the handset, frantically turning the dial in an attempt to find a clearer frequency.

“ _Shhhhhhhkkkkkk-- Yoo-hoooo? Anyone out there? Over._ ”

“Mudd?” Gabriel tried, squeezing the button on the side of the radio so tightly that the casing creaked. 

“ _Gabe!_ ” Mudd’s voice over the radio was garbled, but unmistakable. “ _There you are. It’s so very good to hear your dulcet tones. Over.”_

“Gabriel.” 

“ _You have to say ‘over’ when you’ve finished speaking. Over.”_

“I said it’s _Gabriel_ . _Over_ ,” said Gabriel belatedly, through gritted teeth, when the silence had dragged on long enough that he’d realised that Mudd was being entirely serious. 

“ _Ah, I’ve missed your delightful sense of humour...”_ Gabriel placed the radio next to him with exaggerated care, leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the desk, counting to ten very, very slowly, while Mudd chattered on. “... _but as I said, how was I supposed to know she was married to a Denobulan trapeze artist? Anyway, enough about me - Gabe, I think I might just have something for you.”_

Gabriel’s head jerked up at that, and he scrabbled to snatch the radio back.

_“Meet me at the docks. 10, tonight. Over.”_

“The docks?” Gabriel repeated. He hadn’t set foot in the docks in years. Since landing planetside, in fact. “Why?”

There was a long pause. 

“Over,” Gabriel sighed.

_“Pack a bag, Gabe. I hear Paris is lovely this time of year. Over.”_


	4. Chapter 4

_… While I understand Command's position on this issue, I do not accept it. I maintain that a small memorial to the_ Buran _, to be located in the XO's hometown, would be appropriate. No mention of my name need appear on it, and in fact I believe it would be best if this were the case. Other ships lost to the war have received similar recognition and to withhold this from the crew of the_ Buran _is an unjustifiable position._

_This course of action would be suitably low-profile to avoid further scrutiny of Command, whilst providing much-needed closure and perhaps some small comfort to the families affected._

**_Starfleet Response_ **

_As per previous communications, all files pertaining to the destruction of the_ Buran _remain classified. No change to this situation is anticipated and as such no further action will be taken._

_\- Petition to Starfleet Command from Gabriel Lorca, received 2264_

 

* * *

**_Paris, Earth, 2270_ **

 

The sun was just beginning to creep above the bio-spire of the Notre-Dame as Mudd guided his shuttle over the city, following a route along the Seine. Hundreds of conscientious bees were already making the most of the blossoms that crowded the cathedral’s sides, while far below them, Paris began to stretch and shake herself awake in the crisp Spring morning light.

It was beautiful. Which only served to make Gabriel feel worse, somehow.

“Will you relax?” Mudd called over the rumbling of the engines.

Gabriel very much doubted that he would, what with the combination of Mudd’s terrible flying, the fact that this rickety old shuttle had almost certainly been stolen from a very grumpy giant space fly, and the knowledge that they were about to attempt to break into the Federation Council complex.

It had all seemed very straightforward, when Mudd had put the plan to him at the docks five days ago. The information Gabriel had requested was closely restricted to the very highest of high-ups in Starfleet. Classified by the Federation Council itself.

So they were going to go and get it. 

Mudd had been less than forthcoming about the details of exactly _how_ they were going to achieve this. But it hadn't mattered. The drumbeat in Gabriel's head had drowned out other, more rational concerns. They had a lead. And soon, he would have the only thing he wanted. He would have the _truth_.

That had been five days ago. Five days stuck in close quarters, in a shuttle not designed for humans, with notorious criminal Harcourt Fenton Mudd. Relegated to the bottom bunk by Harcourt Fenton Mudd. Being berated by Harcourt Fenton Mudd for 'being a morning person'. Tolerating the seemingly endless supply of Harcourt Fenton Mudd's stream-of-consciousness chatter. Breathing in Harcourt-Fenton-Mudd-flavoured recycled air. Plenty of time for the drumbeat in Gabriel's head to subside, to remember that he needed to send a message to his therapist so that she didn't get suspicious about his sudden and unexplained absence ("I'm - staying with a friend," he'd told her, and tried to ignore both the pride in her voice and the grin on Mudd's face), and for the reality of what he'd signed up for to set in.

And for Gabriel's dread of space travel to return with a vengeance.

"Still yet to find those space legs of yours, huh, Gabe?" Mudd noted, spinning around in the pilot's seat as Gabriel returned, grey-faced, from the bathroom. "You know, I used to know someone who got terrible space sickness, suffered something chronic, and _he_ threw up so much that--"

"Nothing wrong with my space legs," Gabriel muttered, stumbling back on legs that would much rather be on solid ground again. Preferably solid ground that had been arrived at without an emergency landing. "It's your goddamn flying that's the problem."

"Uh huh. There's a bucket if--"

"Keep your eyes on the sky, will you?" 

Gabriel rubbed his forehead wearily. He had spent most of the journey oscillating somewhere between terror and tedium. Sometimes both at the same time. No wonder his head hurt.

“No one likes a backseat pilot, Gabe."

They landed, miraculously, without incident, Mudd’s doctored docking clearance waved through by the bored-looking official who hailed them. 

Once he was certain his breakfast wasn’t going to put in another reappearance, Gabriel stood, stretching gratefully. Everything hurt. Mudd hadn't bothered to properly recalibrate the pressure or the inertial dampeners for humans, rather than - whatever species Xxkhlkkk was, and it made for a very weird sensation now that they were back on Earth.

“Are you going to tell me the plan now? I presume there _is_ a plan?” he asked, eyeing the extremely large storage trunk - the same one that he'd seen back at the warehouse, the same one he'd been sure contained weapons - that Mudd had stowed beneath his bunk for the journey. 

That was the _other_ thing that had kept Gabriel awake during the night cycle, after he stubbed his toe on it climbing into bed on the first day. Mudd had not been particularly sympathetic. 

"What do you want me to do, strap it to the hull?" he'd snapped. 

But he'd also demurred when Gabriel demanded to know what was inside it, which hadn't exactly made for a restful night.

He could still call the whole thing off, Gabriel told himself. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. Wouldn’t even lift a phaser again. Ever. No secret was worth that. 

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Gabe,” Mudd clucked. “Of  _course_ there’s a plan.”

Gabriel loitered nervously behind him as he stooped to unfasten the trunk.

“ _E voilà_!” 

Mudd flipped the lid with a flourish, and Gabriel’s breakfast nearly paid them a surprise visit after all.

"Not the reaction I was aiming for," Mudd commented mildly, when Gabriel spun away and retched.

“ _Why is there a body in there_?” 

Carefully folded into the trunk, a peaceful smile on her face, was a tall - or at least, she would have been if she’d been standing - Andorian woman in the gold-braided uniform of a Starfleet flag officer. 

“It’s not a - _Jesus,_ Gabe. Look.” Mudd sat the - Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to think the word _body_ again - the Andorian up, and rapped his knuckles on her head. There was a hollow _clang._ “It’s just a bot.”

Gabriel gripped the sides of the recycler and leaned against the bulkhead, his forehead pressed against the cold metal, breathing like he’d just run a race. 

“You didn’t think I’d _murdered_ someone, did you?” Mudd sounded hurt.

“You opened a box and there was a _person_ inside it,” Gabriel growled into the bulkhead, not trusting himself to turn around. He'd promised himself that he'd never resort to violence again. Mudd was … challenging that promise. “What did you _think_ I would think?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Murdering’s extra. You couldn’t afford it.” Gabriel paled, and Mudd poked him in the ribs. “I’m _joking._ ”

“Good.”

“Mostly.”

“Oh, god.”

“I’d give you a discount, seeing as you’re a friend--”

“Just - stop.”

Gabriel counted steadily to ten and then, when that failed to help, ten more. 

He straightened up slowly and ran his hand across his forehead. It came away sweaty and not a little shaky. 

Not the best start to the morning. 

“Explain - this,” he managed eventually, gesturing at the not-body in the trunk.

“ _This_ is Fleet Admiral Zh'rethin. In a manner of speaking. And she’s going to help us break into her own office.”

“Us?” Gabriel said weakly.

“I’ll control the Admiral from here. _You_ will play the part of her faithful old assistant.”

“Is that - really necessary?” Gabriel asked, ignoring the jibe about his age. “Can’t we just send - her in?”

“Look, I’m good, but I’m not that good. This was a rush job. The Admiral is … lacking in fine motor skills. She needs someone with fully functioning opposable thumbs - i.e., you - to help her out.” Mudd passed Gabriel a pile of clothes and a pair of boots. “Now - why don’t you go slip into something a little more comfortable while I fire her up, and then we’ll really get this party started.”

Gabriel squeezed reluctantly into the shuttle’s tiny and decidedly grubby bathroom, even worse for wear now, after five days of abuse from Mudd, and inspected the bundle warily. Something small and shiny tumbled out, falling to the floor and skittering away.He bent awkwardly to retrieve it, doing his best not to touch anything else down there, and looked at it.

He swallowed. 

A Starfleet insignia. 

They'd changed the shape slightly since he last held one, smoothed out the edges of the delta, but it felt real enough. Even the weight of it in his hand seemed right. 

_He ran his thumb over his new pips, counting them over and over again._

_One. Two. Three._

Four.

 _There hadn’t been much time to prepare. The sudden retirement of the_ Buran' _s previous, very long-serving commanding officer had caught HQ by surprise._

 _Gabriel had suspected that he was not the first person to receive the call from Command, when it came. Truth was, nobody particularly wanted the commission. The_ Buran _was old - Cardenas class ships were being quietly retired from the Fleet, in favour of far less cumbersome, far more efficient, far shinier two-nacelled designs. As far as Gabriel had been able to ascertain, the_ Buran _already ran on hopes and prayers and the sheer righteous anger of her Chief Engineer as much as she did dilithium. And her mission, slow and ponderous, out on the fringes of deep space, was hardly the most glamourous of prospects._

_But he’d accepted all the same._

_A ship of his own._

_He brushed the pips again, distracted._

_Just two hours before they docked. He’d have to get used to it quickly._

_On the seat next to him, his PADD buzzed with a new message alert, snapping him out of his reverie. Still turning the insignia over and over in one hand, he turned the screen around with the other to read it._

**KC:** I wanted to be the first to congratulate you - Captain Lorca.

_He grinned, and tapped out a short, one-handed reply._

**GL:** Actually, you're the second.

_A brief pause, then--_

**KC:**?

 **GL:** Pip beat you to it.

_Gabriel smirked at the thought of Rear Admiral Cornwell’s professional calm giving way to Kat’s indignation as his PADD lit up with a series of rapid-fire responses._

**KC:** How?!

 **KC:** I only just signed off on the official announcement!

 **KC:** She shouldn't even know yet!

 **KC:** She's three sectors away! 

 **KC:** It's the middle of the night cycle on the _Shenzhou_!

 **GL** : You should have learned a long time ago that you have to wake up early to get anything past Philippa Georgiou.

 **KC:** Looks like I'll just have to stop sleeping at all.

_The shuttle’s pilot, to her credit, pretended not to hear Gabriel laughing to himself._

**KC:** Anyway - congratulations. Even if I am only the second person to tell you that.

 **GL:** Thanks.

 **GL:** I'll try not to let the power go to my head.

 **KC:** With an ego the size of yours, it doesn't really have anywhere else to go, does it?

 **GL:** … so that's a 'no' on the crown?

 **KC:** An emphatic ‘no’.

_The pilot cleared her throat._

_“Sir? You asked to be notified as soon as we had visual. We, uh - have visual.”_

_Gabriel stood. In the viewscreen, he got his first, distant glimpse of her._

_The_ Buran. 

_He took a deep breath. Tried to, anyway. It got stuck somewhere in his throat and lodged there. His chest felt tight._

_Another buzz from his PADD. Gabriel managed, somehow, to persuade his arm to lift it up and to drag his gaze away from the viewscreen for long enough to glance at the message displayed there._

**KC:** You’ll be great. I know you will.

_He looked back up at the ship. At his new home._

_Exhaled._

Gabriel didn’t turn the delta over. Knowing that he would not find his name and personnel number there … hurt. He set it on the edge of the sink instead, carefully, and turned his attention to the rest of the disguise. Starfleet issue uniform pants - his size, which was a little creepy - undershirt and one of those new, loud red Ops jackets, lieutenant's stripe on the wrists.

Not so new, Gabriel reminded himself. In fact, they were probably due to be overhauled again soon. The Fleet had been phasing them in when he - had his accident. 

He hadn’t liked them much back then, either. 

He’d had a routine for this, once. Getting into uniform had been a near-sacred act. Now, out of practice and clumsy in the confined space - had the pants always been this tight? He didn't remember it being such a struggle before - he tugged it on as best he could and made a mental note to straighten it all out later. 

Hand trembling, Gabriel zipped the jacket up to the collar, and felt a wave of claustrophobia that was only partly due to the way it fit a little too snugly around his middle.

Xxkhlkkk had installed a mirror subroutine in the bathroom at some point. Well, Gabriel supposed, as he called it up, even a six foot space bug needed to look their best. He appraised himself glumly. The grey-haired reflection that blinked back at him looked - a mess, in truth. Sweat prickling around the hairline. Eyes red with lack of sleep. Beard badly in need of a trim. Jacket creased. If he'd been on the receiving end of one of his own uniform inspections, back in the day, he wouldn't have passed.

And yet, somehow, he looked more familiar to himself than he had in years. 

He wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing.

"Cancel mirror," he muttered.

He scooped up the insignia, unable to face pinning it on just yet, and hurried out. The air in the shuttle was almost cool, by comparison. 

“You know, since they changed the Ops uniform to red, incidents have increased by nearly thirty percent?” he managed, trying to swallow down his nausea. “Probably something to do with how it makes you look like a goddamn moving target--”

“You must be fun at parties,” Mudd sighed. “It _suits_ you, Gabe. Quit whining.”

Gabriel tugged uncomfortably at the jacket. It rode up ever so slightly over his belly again, despite his efforts.

Mudd had cleared a space in the middle of the shuttle, and was assembling a rig that looked like it might at least partly have been made of an old test-flight helmet and some coat hangers, with a few spoons taped to his fingertips for good measure. The robot stood a short distance away, eerily idle, staring straight ahead. 

The whole tableau was ridiculous. 

" _... dee-dee dee-dee dee di-dee-dee, if I only had a braaain,"_ Mudd sang to himself as he worked.

"That was the Scarecrow," Gabriel said distantly. 

"Hmm?" Mudd asked, mid-hum. 

"Scarecrow needed the brain. Not the Tin Man." Gabriel frowned, trying to remember. "Tin Man needed the heart."

"What are you, the, the ... Literary ... Lion?" Mudd said, only half listening to him, contorting to squint instead at a loose connection somewhere around his elbow as though it had personally offended him.

"Cowardly," muttered Gabriel.

"What was that?” Mudd tutted impatiently. “You know, you really are a terrible mumbler. Enunciate, dear Gabriel, e- _nun-_ ci-ate. Or don't they teach that at the Academy?"

"Doesn't matter." Gabriel shook himself and gestured to Mudd's get-up. "What’s with the - bucket?"

"Mock if you must, Gabe. You’ll soon see the error of your ways," Mudd said loftily, and shut the helmet’s visor.

A faint hum filled the air.

Mudd stretched out his arms, and the Admiral followed his lead, in perfect sync.  

Gabriel watched, openmouthed. 

They might just get away with this.

“You built this?” he asked, walking cautiously around the bot. The Admiral was a little creaky, and if you stood too close you risked a static shock, but she was impressive all the same. 

“Hmm? Oh, with my own fair hand,” Mudd replied loftily. The Admiral’s mouth moved along with him and the bot echoed his words in her voice, which was somewhat distressing. 

“Never had you down as an engineer,” Gabriel remarked.

“Yes, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Gabe.”

 _You’re not wrong there,_ Gabriel thought.

“She’s not my best work.” Mudd shrugged, very nearly modest. “If Starfleet hadn’t seized all my assets in a brutal and fascistic power-grab--” 

“Was this before or after you absconded from jail?”

“-- _a brutal and fascistic power-grab,_ it would have been a different story. Alas. She’ll have to do.” 

Gabriel found himself nose to nose with the Admiral. She was … unsettlingly realistic. Right down to the quirks of her antennae.

“You know, you’re wasted on petty crime,” he said, impressed despite himself, as he retreated to a safe distance from the Admiral's vaguely disapproving expression. 

“I am _not_ a petty criminal,” Mudd retorted, offended. “I am an _exceptional_ criminal. Not to mention artist, raconteur and lover of universal renown.”

Fortunately for Gabriel, at that moment the Admiral crashed into the bulkhead and promptly fell over, relieving him of the necessity to find a suitable response to that.

Once they had the Admiral safely propped up and the rig deactivated, Mudd pulled up a projection with blueprints of the building.

Gabriel didn’t dare ask where he’d acquired them.

“The key is to look like we know where we’re going. Move with _purpose_ ,” he explained. “Admiral Zh'rethin’s offices are on the seventh floor. So we take the elevators at the end of the--”

“I know it,” Gabriel said shortly. He caught Mudd’s curious expression and shrugged. “Been there before.”

“Alright,” Mudd said. “But you just make certain you remember who’s in charge of this mission, _lieutenant._ You take your orders from me.” 

"And what orders will those be, exactly?" 

"Have you ever heard of plausible deniability, Gabe?" Mudd sighed. "The more I tell you, the more you can blab. So. You know what you need to know, and you trust me with the rest."

Gabriel clenched his jaw. 'Plausible deniability' sounded suspiciously like code for 'making it up as I go along'.

Mudd powered down the projection. 

“You ready to go?” he asked, so calmly that Gabriel almost forgot what they were about to do. 

He looked down. 

“Where’s the rest of the - disguise?” he asked. “This can’t be all of it.”

“Of course it’s not.”

Mudd thrust a holder containing two coffee cups into Gabriel’s free hand, and stood back to admire his handiwork. 

“There,” he said proudly. “ _C’est parfait_.”

“No,” Gabriel said, hollowly. “No. This is a joke.”

“What did you want, a fake moustache? In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re already fully stocked in the facial hair department. Just trust me--”

“Trust you? You’re going to get us both k-- caught!”

“I can get into any building in the universe with two cups of coffee. You just have to make people think you’re _busy--_ ”

“Then why don’t _you_ do it?”

“Because _I_ shall be piloting the Admiral, remember? You lack the necessary … _je ne sais quoi_. It's all in the hips, you wouldn't appreciate it. But you’re a _perfect_ desk jockey. Look at you!”

“Forget it. I’m out--”

“Oh, come on. It’s easy. All you have to do is stand there, flash those baby blues and look pretty.” 

Gabriel scowled at him.

“That might need a little work,” Mudd admitted. 

“This whole _plan_ needs work!”

“Everyone will be so preoccupied with fawning over the Admiral, they won’t even notice you. Nobody ever notices the redshirt with the coffees.”

“This is impersonating a Starfleet officer. And - this?” Gabriel waved a hand at the RoboAdmiral. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s definitely an arrestable offence.”

“It’s not _impersonating_ an officer,” Mudd said soothingly, ignoring the second part of Gabriel’s objection. “You _are_ a Starfleet officer.”

“Was. _Was_ a Starfleet officer.”

“Well then. Shouldn’t be too hard to get back into the swing of things, should it?” Mudd said brightly.

Gabriel sighed.

That was that, apparently. 

Mudd looked him over with a critical eye.

“Badge,” he said abruptly.

Gabriel had forgotten all about it. He opened his hand and stared at it, glinting in his palm. He'd been clutching it so tightly that it had left indents in his skin.

“Insignia,” he muttered.

“Whatever.”

“No, not ‘whatever’. _Insignia._ Delta. Pips. You go calling this a _badge,_ everyone with half a brain will know something’s up,” Gabriel said sharply.

“Are you going to put that _badge_ on, or just wander around carrying it?” Mudd asked. When Gabriel didn’t answer immediately, he plucked it from him. “Give it here.”

Gabriel stood very still while Mudd affixed it to his chest. 

“Better already,” Mudd observed approvingly, straightening it up. “I _would_ say I love a man in uniform, but they tend to be the ones chasing after me shouting.”

Gabriel shook his head. 

“This is a terrible idea, and it is never going to work.”

*

“I can’t believe this is working,” Gabriel muttered, aghast.

“Keep your voice down, Coffee Boy,” replied Mudd, in the Admiral’s tones, her mouth moving in time with his words. “We’re not finished yet.”

The plan had worked like a dream. On seeing Fleet Admiral Android, the security officers who had greeted them had near enough strained muscles in their efforts to stand up straight. Everyone was too polite to mention the ever so slightly stiff and unnatural gait of the Admiral, or how her face was weirdly emotionless. Maybe she was always like this, first thing in the morning.

They’d barely given Gabriel a second glance.

He made a mental note to send some anonymous security advice to Command as soon as he was firmly back on the right side of the law. 

There were more people here than Gabriel had seen in years. No, that wasn't quite it. It wasn't just that it was busy, although the crowd was certainly smothering and disorienting. There were more _humans_ here than Gabriel had seen in years. It was jarring, after Dj'reek, where being a soft-skinned biped was something of novelty.

That had been at least part of the logic of sending him to the colony, of course. Having spent so long There, Gabriel found that the company of other humans left a bad taste in his mouth.

And humans wearing uniforms were worst of all. 

Gabriel tugged at his collar uncomfortably.

Once they were clear of the main atrium, it became easy to see why Mudd had volunteered himself for the more anonymous side of this mission. Along the walls, holographic wanted posters glowed, and chief among that particular rogues’ gallery, scruffy and scowling in a photo at least ten years old, was Mudd himself.

Gabriel wondered vaguely which picture they’d use for his mugshot.

His hand shook so badly that he spilled coffee, fortunately long cold, over it.

“Careful,” Mudd said through the bot's mouth. “The Admiral needs her morning caffeine fix.”

Gabriel tried to keep his breathing even. 

He’d pulled off much worse than this, he told himself. Stolen the Emperor’s private shuttle. Stormed the Imperial Palace. Orchestrated a mass jail break.

All of those plans had involved considerably more explosives, of course.

At least no one would try to kill them, here. 

Probably.

“Floor seven,” Mudd announced imperiously when, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the elevators, Gabriel trailing along behind.

Gabriel braced himself as the doors opened onto the seventh floor.

Nothing had changed. The floor of its broad corridor still gleamed. The air still tasted like polish and efficiency. Busy assistants still criss-crossed, still clutching important data PADDs. 

But now, the sign on the third door to the left had rearranged itself into something unfamiliar.

_VICE ADMIRAL WALTERS_

_“This is it, then?”_

_“This is it.” Kat beamed at him. “What do you think?”_

_“It’s, uh…” Gabriel folded his arms and cast around for the right word. There were shelves with books. Real books. Fancy lamps. Screens on the walls. Some sort of tall, leafy plant in a tasteful pot. A rug? Jones had had to point out to him that installing a replicator in his ready room might make morning briefings more pleasant. He was way out of his comfort zone here. “Big.”_

_“Big,” Kat repeated, deflated._

_“And you got a window,” Gabriel added, rallying. “You must be important now.”_

_“I am.”_

_It was a - nice view, if you liked that sort of thing. Trees and buildings and sky. Birds. Gabriel joined her in looking out on it all, watching the people on the street below._

_“You never told me what you think,” Kat said quietly._

_“I did.”_

_“‘Big’ isn’t an opinion, Gabriel.” She turned to face him, elbows resting on the window ledge. "So. What do you think?"_

_Gabriel hesitated. He had the distinct impression they weren't just talking about interior design. Which meant he was even further out of his comfort zone than before._

_It wasn't exactly his idea of a dream promotion. Too much gravity, for starters. Too much diplomacy. Too many meetings. Too many graphs. Too many meetings about graphs._

_But in the space of a few short weeks, Kat already looked utterly at home among it all._

_"It suits you," he said eventually. And then, because he didn't know what else he was supposed to say, he gestured at the plant. "I like the - that."_

_"Oh. A gift from the Vulcan ambassador, to welcome me to Council. Well. From his wife, I expect. I don't think he's the gift-giving type." She frowned at it. "Luckily, my new assistant is green-fingered. I mean. She's Orion, so - but she's good with plants. Otherwise I don't think it would have survived my first week."_

_"You'd have figured it out. Always do."_

_"Maybe. I'm told it's virtually indestructible."_

How apt, _Gabriel thought._

_Aircars drifted in the distance._

_"Is that bar still open?" he asked. "The one where we--"_

_"Oh._ Oh. _I think so?" Kat looked sidelong at him. "I haven't been back since. We're probably still banned."_

_"Two respectable Starfleet officers like us? A captain and a vice admiral? Impossible." Gabriel kept his gaze fixed firmly on the skyline and shrugged, nonchalant. "I thought we could - celebrate your promotion. Before I ship back out. See if their wine list is still the best this side of Risa."_

_"You don't like wine."_

_"You do." She didn't reply immediately, and Gabriel shifted as the pause stretched on just a little too long to be comfortable. "How about it?"_

_"It's - a nice thought. Really."_

_"But?"_

_"It's like you said. A captain and a vice admiral. It's…" Kat trailed off._

It's not a problem, _Gabriel thought._ A rap on the knuckles at worst. A lecture about appropriate conduct. If anyone sees us. If we're _indiscreet_. Maybe I get reassigned to a different flag officer. Big deal. No harm, no foul.

And then maybe I see you even less--

_"No. You're right," he said instead. He readjusted the cuff of his jacket from its already regulation position. "Bad idea."_

_"I didn't say that."_

_"Didn't have to."_ Shouldn't have to. _He managed to flash her a brittle smile. "It's fine. Admiral."_

Nothing had changed, and everything had changed.

“When you are _quite_ ready, Lieutenant?”

The Admiral - Mudd - was staring at him. 

Gabriel realised that he had stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. Assistants were skirting around him like water flowing round a stone. 

“Sorry. Ma’am,” he mumbled, and hurried after the robot.

“Just _can’t_ get the staff these days,” Gabriel heard Mudd remark to a passing Science Officer. " _The hell is wrong with you?"_ he hissed to Gabriel, once he was near enough that no one else could hear.

"Sorry," Gabriel repeated. "I ... remembered something."

"Something that's going to help us out here?" Mudd asked sharply.

"Not really."

"Then forget it again," Mudd snapped. He glanced at Gabriel's stricken expression, sighed and, though the Admiral's face remained blank, his voice softened. "This is a two-man job." Mudd paused. "A two-man-and-a-bot job. I can't have you going all - _nostalgic_ on me. Got it?"

Gabriel managed a tight nod.

"Good. Because it's show time."


	5. Chapter 5

_ >>NEW DRAFT MESSAGE<< _

**_TO:_ ** _Cornwell, Vice Admiral K._

 **_FROM:_ ** _Lorca, Captain G._

 **_SECURITY:_ ** _HIGH_

_Hey Kat,_

_I had a great time last night. Same time next solar cycle?_

_G_

_ >>DRAFT DELETED<< _

_ >>NEW DRAFT MESSAGE<< _

**_TO:_ ** _Cornwell, Vice Admiral K._

 **_FROM:_ ** _Lorca, Captain G._

 **_SECURITY:_ ** _HIGH_

_Hi Kat,_

_It was good to see you yesterday. I missed you._

_I know we discussed this already, and I don't want to go over old ground again. But we're older and wiser (?) now, so I hoped maybe we could_

_ >>DRAFT DELETED<< _

_ >>NEW DRAFT MESSAGE<< _

**_TO:_ ** _Cornwell, Vice Admiral K._

 **_FROM:_ ** _Lorca, Captain G._

 **_SECURITY:_ ** _HIGH_

_Kat,_

_I_

_ >>DRAFT DELETED<< _

_-Draft messages between Lorca, Gabriel and Cornwell, Katrina, classified 2257_

* * *

 

The Fleet Admiral's office was vast. Unnecessarily big. A junior league game of parrises squares could probably have been played on the desk, if you moved a couple of photo frames aside.

Walking into that open space, Gabriel suddenly felt more on edge than he had among the crowds in the corridors outside. It was like stepping out into enemy territory. That same mix of exposed vulnerability and irrational claustrophobia as all his senses clarmored for attention. Except this time, instead of weapons, back up, allies and a plan, he had Harcourt Fenton Mudd, two coffee cups, some loosely-connected, half-baked ideas and a creepy android. 

He shook himself. This wasn’t enemy territory. This was the Federation. This was Starfleet.

That realisation only made things worse, if anything. The fake badge on his chest felt like a dead weight.

“Ground control to Gabe.”

Mudd had piloted the Admiral to the far side of the desk, in front of the main console. The android stood, calm and still, watching Gabriel.

This could have been any meeting, with any superior officer that Gabriel had ever been dragged to, if it wasn’t for the weirdly lifeless expression on the bot’s face and the vague risk of electric shock.

Actually, come to think of it, he had been to a few meetings exactly like that. 

"It's alright, you can say it," Mudd said, as he drew alongside the android. "'Harry, you're a genius.'"

It was, admittedly, a very long list, but Gabriel could not imagine any situation in which he would be less likely to utter those words. 

"Can we get on with it?" he said instead, setting the coffee cups down on the desk.

"What's the rush? We've done the hard bit. We're in. The Admiral's giving some boring speech on the other side of the quadrant this morning." Gabriel pretended not to notice when Mudd made Zh'rethin's antennae wiggle suggestively. "Ain't nobody here but us chickens."

"We should act quickly. We could still get caught."

"By those bureaucrats? Unlikely. Too busy pushing PADDs--"

"There are cameras out there. We'll be all over the footage--"

"You know what's really interesting about you, Gabe?” Mudd said, sounding as though he was anything but interested in the topic. “Before we embarked on our adventure, I did a little reading - oh yes, that's right, Mr I Presume There Is A Plan, _reading_. And here's the thing. You don't exist. Not in any meaningful way, at least. No official photos, no biometrics on your records. You’re like a ghost. Anyone who _does_ manage to see past the glamour of the Fleet Admiral and try to cross-reference your face, charming as it is, will find nary a whisper of you. In their haste to get shot of Gabriel Lorca, Starfleet made him … disappear." The android performed an awkward shrug. "It's really rather thoughtful of them, actually."

"These people _are_ _Starfleet_. Someone will remember me. Someone will _recognise_ me."

"When did you last shimmy your way into all that lycra, hmm?" Mudd sighed. "It must have been, what, ten, fifteen years and a few kilos since then? And that _beard."_ Gabriel couldn't see Mudd's expression, but he could hear the shudder in his voice. Gabriel's hand flew to his chin, defensively. "Even I had to look twice before I was sure it was you. And believe me, yours is not a face I’d forget in a hurry.”

Fifteen years. Kat could have made Fleet Admiral by now. Should have made Fleet Admiral years ago. This could have been her office. Maybe it was, in some other universe--

“Which reminds me,” Gabriel said, trying to shut down that thought before it could take hold, “you never did tell me how we met--”

 _“The point is -_ space is big and memory is short. I hate to burst your bubble, Gabe, but the truth is, in the grand scheme of things, you're just … not all that important."

There was a bad tempered sort of silence, on Gabriel’s part at least. The droid merely maintained an infuriating neutrality. 

"Thanks for the pep talk," Gabriel muttered at last, rubbing at his beard. 

"Oh, don't be sore. Your anonymity is our best weapon. Well. Second best. My genius is our _best_ weapon, obviously."

“Obviously.” Gabriel took a deep breath, and let it out again as slowly as he could manage under the circumstances. It didn’t help much. “Alright. What now?”

“Always so _impatient._ No style, that’s your problem, Gabe--”

_“Mudd.”_

“Fine,” Mudd huffed. “This will only take a minute, you’ll be delighted to he--”

The android’s voice cut out mid-word. 

"Mudd?" 

Gabriel frowned. It was just a - small problem. Interference jamming the signal. Mudd had probably tripped over one of the damn wires and pulled it out. Nothing to worry about.

“--eeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

The Admiral's eyes went blank. Not - distant. Blank. The pupils radiated out into a horizontal line which spread slowly outwards, until the entire surface of the eyes were black.

The android twitched a couple of times. Antennae jerked at anatomically improbable angles. Stilled. 

Gabriel waved a hand in front of the droid's face, tried clicking his fingers a few times. There was no response. No electric shock, nothing.

OK. Maybe something to worry about.

"Mudd? _Harry!"_

Gabriel clapped his hands over his ears as a high-pitched whine emanated, as if in response, from the android. It made no difference - the noise grew until it filled the office, until he could feel it vibrating in his chest, until it reached a pitch that seemed designed to cause human brains to melt. He felt like a wine glass in the grip of a determined opera singer.  

Colours rapidly cycled across the Admiral's eyes, faster and faster, until they glowed white.

Gabriel took a step back, wondering distantly, in the tiny space left in his brain that wasn't noise, how long it would take Security to arrive if the bot exploded, and how the hell he would explain away being caught in this office with the smoking remains of the Fleet Admiral--

And then, as abruptly as it had started, the noise disappeared. 

Gabriel inched forward, warily. 

"Harry?" he tried again.

The extreme verisimilitude of the android was already unsettling, but never more than when, as Gabriel watched, her lower jaw unhinged and lowered.

"What the--"

Gabriel was hit square in the face at close range by the data card that flew out of the hole where her mouth had been.

The word that flew out of Gabriel's mouth in response was not particularly eloquent, but it was heartfelt.

He doubled over, hands pressed to the bridge of his nose, and screwed his eyes shut to try and stop the bright spots that bloomed in his vision.

The droid blinked a couple of times, eyes resetting.

"Well, _that_ was sluggish," tutted Mudd, the Admiral's voice now emanating from somewhere in her throat, the sound fainter and tinny without the reverberations provided by her mouth, given that the entire lower half of her face was still hanging uselessly. The Admiral looked around, then bent at the waist to peer at Gabriel. "What are you doing down there?"

"You nearly broke my nose!"

"Your nose nearly broke my data card!" Mudd retorted. The android's jaw swung back and forth like the rusty sign outside a saloon bar in an old cowboy holomovie. "Where is it?"

"Get it yourself," Gabriel muttered, straightening back up. He stretched out his face experimentally and more or less immediately regretted it.

"Don’t be a baby. It's fine," Mudd sniped, as Gabriel touched his nose gingerly and winced. "Matches your jacket now. _Where is my data card?"_

“Over there,” Gabriel said irritably, waving his free hand in the general direction of the Fleet Admiral’s oversized desk, under which the cards had skidded to a halt. 

“Well then. Don’t just stand there,” Mudd said, imperious. Gabriel glared at him, or at least tried to, before his eyes started watering again. “I didn’t bring you along for your winning personality, Gabe. Opposable thumbs, remember? This is your big moment. Chop chop.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth and crawled underneath the desk.

 _Stick to the mission,_ he thought glumly, as he felt around for the card. _Get in, get the data, get out again. Try not to murder Mudd along the way._

"What's next?" he growled, once he'd retrieved the card. 

What was next, it transpired, was somehow even worse. 

"I'm not doing it," Gabriel said, folding his arms resolutely. 

"Oh, don't be a bore. It's not like I'm a _real_ Andorian."

"Just tell me where to find the files, and I'll get them--"

"I watched you with the computer on the shuttle, gramps. We don't have the time. Come on."

Gabriel could have pointed out that the computer on the shuttle had been designed for someone with six hands and compound eyes, and possibly had some sort of interface that relied on a proboscis, but it was an argument that could wait until later. Ideally much later, once they were both back on said shuttle and in clear open space, not sharing a holding cell at Starfleet Security.

Gabriel sighed and reached up for the top of the android's head. He gripped the left-hand antenna with a grimace.

"I want you to know that I object to this."

"Yeah, yeah. Objection noted in the official heist log. Get on with it,Starfleet."

Gabriel screwed up his face, turned half away and twisted.

The antenna gave way with a _pop._

“This is - so inappropriate,” Gabriel muttered, holding it fastidiously between finger and thumb. He turned it over, wary. At its base circuits were visible, a flashing light indicating that some kind of transmitter was active.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Mudd said, proudly, oblivious to his distaste. The one remaining antenna on the droid’s head twitched unpleasantly. With the jaw still hanging loose, it looked as though its face was disintegrating piece by piece. “Little trick I learned on the grapevine.”

Gabriel placed the antenna onto the console, where a tiny maglock engaged and it attached itself like a - well, like an antenna. It turned and twitched, tracing the signal Mudd was emitting like some small creature sniffing out food.  

“Could you really not think of anything less disgusting than that?” Gabriel scowled. 

“Just you wait, Gabe.”

The screen lit up.

"And … we’re in." The glee in Mudd’s voice set Gabriel's teeth on edge. “Gabriel - the data card, if you would be so kind.”

The card felt heavy in Gabriel’s hand as he picked it up. 

Nonsense. 

He shoved it into the slot as quickly as he could and snatched his hand away as though it might burn him.

Watching the display flash as Mudd cycled rapidly through files, Gabriel wondered - not for the first time, but with a gradually creeping sense of dread now - at the ease with which Mudd had got them through the security systems. That he'd had the blueprints to the building. That he'd been able to sail through the biometrics on the door. The fact that he'd just happened to have a damn android lying around in the first place. It all seemed very - convenient. It took careful preparation to pull off this kind of thing. Gabriel knew that all too well.

He was beginning to revise upwards his estimate of Mudd's preparations from 'no plan at all' to 'a plan, just not necessarily the one that you're hoping for'.

That was definitely worse.

"Got it," Mudd announced. 

Gabriel blinked.

"Wait. That's - it?"

"We're copying some files, what did you expect?" 

"I thought there'd be a - I don't know, a countdown timer or something."

"I'm sorry, are you _underwhelmed?"_

"No, no," Gabriel replied hastily. Here, underwhelming was just right. Underwhelming was _safe._

"Good. Because yes, that's it."

The data card ejected from the memory core with a satisfied sort of _hiss._ Gabriel snatched it up and hoped that Mudd couldn't sense his relief through the droid's interface.

"Great," he said, and meant it. Now they could skip to his favourite part of the plan: get the hell out of here--

"For phase one."

Gabriel paused.

"That implies the existence of a phase two," he said slowly, his sense of dread now not so much creeping as rampaging.

"Wouldn't need to call it phase one if there wasn't a phase two," Mudd replied, chirpily. 

"What's phase two?" 

Gabriel hadn't asked nearly enough questions before agreeing to this stupid scheme, he realised suddenly. Just - trusted Mudd and followed blindly him in to battle with no idea of what he was fighting for. So he was damn well going to ask questions now. 

"Plausible--"

"-- deniability, yeah, I remember," Gabriel snapped. Mudd's schtick had long since worn thin. "And I don't care. _What's phase two?"_

"Covering our tracks," Mudd said, exasperated. "A feat that becomes more difficult, may I point  out, the longer we stand around here having philosophical debates about it. You've just hacked files about Katrina Cornwell and Philippa Georgiou and _Gabriel Lorca_. How long do you think it'll take before you become a suspect, hmm? About - oh, five nanoseconds after they realise that you're the only person on that list who's not dead? Or less than that?" 

Gabriel looked down at the data card. Ten years of false starts and cold trails and dead ends and now - this. At last. The truth, in the palm of his hand. To come all this way, just to fail here-- 

"That's what I thought," Mudd said, smug, seeing his expression fall. “Now then. Where was I…? Oh, yes. Would you like a countdown clock this time? Because I know _I_ would."

The console's display blinked out and changed to - not a clock, exactly, but two sets of numbers. On the left, a large number, getting smaller. And on the right, a smaller number, getting bigger at the same pace.

"Mudd…" 

Mudd started to hum a jaunty tune.

_"Mudd."_

"Hmm?"

"What exactly am I looking at?" Gabriel asked slowly, almost certain he didn't want to know.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mudd replied. "You know, they used to say it made the world go around?" 

_"What did?"_

_"Money, money, money,"_ Mudd sang, _"must be funny--"_

Realisation dawned on Gabriel, about a week too late.

This had never just been about getting the files. The files had been a bonus at best. An afterthought. They’d made a _deal_. He would help Mudd get back at Starfleet. And who better to help the most recognisable criminal in the quadrant than a ghost--

“A robbery?” he said, in horror. “ _That’s_ what this is all about?”

“It's not a _robbery,_ Gabe. I am merely taking back what is rightfully mine," Mudd said grandly. "Seizing what Starfleet stole from me. Restoring the balance. Y'know. Justice and all that sort of rubbish. I thought you’d be all over that like a Vulcan on sudoku.”

“You said this would cover our tracks!”

“I _am_ covering our tracks. Just … with a few additional extras. See, I get my money, then I cause a _tiny little_ blip in Starfleet systems, and by the time those nerds at HQ have sifted through the wreckage and figured out what went wrong, I’ll be sipping jippers on a beach somewhere, earning twenty percent.” Mudd sighed happily. 

“What kind of a blip?” Gabriel tried to imagine the kind of systems that the Fleet Admiral would have access to - the kind of systems that he had helped Mudd break into - and got about as far as weapons and tactical before nausea threatened to overwhelm him. 

“You want to come too? Fine, but you’re paying for your own drinks--”

 _"What kind of a blip?"_ Gabriel demanded.

Mudd didn't answer, which was just about the final straw.

Gabriel lunged for the console at full stretch, but before he could reach it, the breath was knocked out of him by the force of the Admiral's arms as they closed around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and stopping him in his tracks.

A lack of opposable thumbs wasn't all that much of a problem when you had a grip like a vice, clearly.

“Uh-uh,” Mudd tutted. “Gabe. Really. That just won't do."

"Stop," Gabriel wheezed, for all the good it would do. He aimed a kick backwards, into the droid's surprisingly solid shin, achieving nothing except a bruise on his heel to go along with the one on his face. "We already got what we came for--"

" _You_ got what you came for, maybe. Don't be selfish. It's not all about you, you know, Gabe."

All Gabriel could do was watch helplessly as the numbers on the screen cycled ever further, ever closer to the deployment of Mudd’s virus. The android remained unmovable, however hard he struggled - in fact, its grip seemed to be getting tighter. Or perhaps that was just panic setting in. 

The whole time, Mudd kept singing his infuriating song.

_“... in a rich man’s world…”_

Gabriel closed his eyes, unable to watch any more. 

Mudd stopped singing.

"Oh," he said instead, and something about his tone, even through the android's voice box, made Gabriel go cold despite the sweat on his back.

"Oh?" he repeated, opening his eyes.

"It's fine," Mudd said, in a way that implied the complete opposite of that statement.

 _“Mudd,”_ Gabriel growled.

“That boring speech the Admiral was giving on the other side of the quadrant? It’s finished.”

“And?” Gabriel had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next.

“She’s just landed. Here. In Paris.”

Yeah. That was it, more or less.

Gabriel twisted awkwardly in the Admiral’s grip to try and get a look at the chronometer on the desk.

“How long do we have?”

“Oh, long enough to finish the transfer and upload the virus, don’t worry. Then it’s over to you to heroically fight off all the guards. Or get arrested, or whatever. It’s up to you. I don’t really mind.”

Gabriel replayed that reply, and renewed his struggling with rather more alarm.

“Wait.” Indignation and embarrassment - how could he have been so _stupid_ , coming here, trusting Mudd _-_ vied with terror for control of his brain. It was an uncomfortably even match. “You can’t leave me here!”

“Why not? Deal’s done. You got your data, I get revenge on Starfleet. Seems fair to me,” Mudd said. “Don’t be glum. You’ll think of something. You always do, right?”

Gabriel _had_ always thought of something. For five years There, he'd thought of something, through situations that had seemed beyond hope, through desperate situations, through times when he'd been outgunned, outnumbered, over and over again. He had always thought of something. 

Gabriel thought of something, and wished he hadn't.

"One job?" he sneered, keeping a wary eye on the screen. "That's it? One lousy job?"

"If this is an attempt to appeal to my better nature, Gabe, we're going to be here a long time."

Gabriel couldn't shrug, but he did his best to feign nonchalance anyway.

"Just an attempt to appeal to your good business sense."

"Have you seen my bank balance? My business sense is just fine, thank you very much."

So long as Mudd was still talking, Gabriel still had a chance. He seized it.

"You said it yourself," he ploughed on. "I'm a ghost. No records. You? Your face is up in lights on those wanted posters. But me..? You want to throw that away on one job - fine. Get back what you lost. But think about it. Think about how much more I could be worth to you.”

Mudd didn't reply. 

"If you leave me here, I'll help them track you to the ends of the universe. I found you once already. I can do it again. There'll be plenty of evidence to follow. And this time, I'll have the combined forces of Starfleet behind me. When they lock you up - and they will - they won't be so careless. There won't be an escape route. You'll never see the stars again. Or any of your money. All for _one_ job."

There was a long pause. Gabriel counted it in the thumping of his heart against his ribs, in ragged breaths, in the numbers ticking away on the screen. Everything hung in the balance. His freedom. The truth about Pippa and Kat. The safety of Starfleet. 

Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty. Too long.

"Nyaaaarggh," Mudd said finally, which Gabriel took to be reluctant acquiescence, if only because the Admiral's arms loosened, unceremoniously dropping him to the floor in a heap. Gabriel gulped air, wincing as the bruises on his ribs made themselves known. "You've got three minutes, Gabe. Make it count."

Gabriel heaved himself up, grabbed the antenna and pulled. It powered down as he twisted, taking out Mudd's malware with it.

Mudd made a sad, strangled little noise as, on the screen, the numbers on the display began to reverse, faster and faster, before, finally, the console blinked out.

"My money," he said mournfully, in a tiny voice. "It's all gone--"

Gabriel pushed the android's jaw shut with a snap.

"Chin up," he said, and screwed the antenna back into place.

The android's face remained emotionless, but Gabriel could almost hear the specific shade of purple that Mudd's own face was turning, back on the shuttle. It was almost worth all of this, to savour that one glorious moment.

"Two minutes," Mudd spat. "You'd better be worth it."

Gabriel grabbed the data card, gripped it tightly. 

"Let's go."

The doors opened out onto the corridor, the hubbub stark after the quiet of the office. Gabriel straightened his jacket and tried to smooth down his hair, certain that he must look a mess--

He stared at his hands. Left hand, data card. Right hand, empty.

The coffee cups.

"Damnit," he muttered, twisting awkwardly to jam his foot in the door before it could slide shut. Another bruise. Sure. Why not. 

_"What are you doing?"_

"Covering our tracks!" Gabriel snapped, darting through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to allow him back into the office. "Get back to the shuttle. Before someone sees you."

"Woahwoahwoah. I'm not going anywhere without you. How do I know you won't just sell me out?" Mudd said.

Gabriel hesitated. In that breath, he had another thought that he wished he hadn't had. 

He held up the data card so that Mudd could see it and, before he had a chance to change his mind, pressed it into the android's hand, curling its cold fingers around it.

"We don't have time. _Go._ I'll catch you up."

The door closed and the android, and its precious cargo, disappeared from view.

Gabriel exhaled shakily in the silence that followed.

No time to worry now. There were the coffee cups, lost and out of place in the vast expanse of that ridiculous desk. Gabriel snatched them up, used his sleeve to mop up the puddles that had pooled underneath them. He double checked for other signs that they'd been there - straightened the chair, kicked the edge of the rug flat - and hurried from the office. 

Out in the corridor, there was no sign of the android, no sounds of alarms. Good. Keep walking. Keep walking. Get back to the shuttle. Get back to the data.

Heart thumping, Gabriel rounded the corner--

And walked straight into Fleet Admiral Zh'rethin.

Mudd's android really had been a very accurate likeness. The only thing it hadn't done enough justice to was the deeply unimpressed scowl on her face, which Gabriel now had the opportunity to admire in close, terrifying detail. 

"Watch your step, Lieutenant," Zh'rethin said, so sharply that Gabriel found himself snapping to attention, a long dormant reflex action suddenly awoken again.

"I'm sorry. Sir," he said hastily, praying that Mudd hadn't been stupid enough to walk out the way they'd come in. That he'd found a safe route, and the data was safe--

"What were you doing back here?" she asked curiously. Gabriel knew as well as she did that there was only one door left in this corridor, and it was hers.

"Looking for you, sir," Gabriel replied, surprising nobody more than himself.

"Oh?" Zh'rethin's antennae twitched. "And why is that?"

 _Good question. Why_ is _that, Gabriel?_

"Your coffee, sir," Gabriel said, so smoothly that he managed to trick his hands into not shaking as he held out the cup holder to her. 

He was glad that the jacket covered the majority of the scars that ran up his arms. But there was no way she'd miss the state of his hands.

 _OK. Come on. Classic misdirection. Look at the cups, not at my hands, look at the cups, not at my hands, look at the cups, not at the_ very _distinguishing features on my hands--_

 _"Thank_ you," the Admiral said, her frown disappearing as she accepted it with all the enthusiasm of someone thrown a lifebuoy. 

No wonder nobody had been surprised to see her trailed by a guy holding two cups of the stuff earlier, Gabriel thought to himself, folding his hands safely behind his back. Mudd really had done his research. He might just get out of this after all--

"Lieutenant, uh…?"

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic. Just think of something generic._

"Kirk, sir."

The Admiral's eyes narrowed, boring into his. 

Wrong answer.

_Damnit._

Gabriel tensed, fought down the urge to wipe away the lone trickle of sweat wending an inexorable downwards path from his temple. Why had Mudd's alias come to mind now, of all times? 

"Kirk," the Admiral repeated, stretching out the name fastidiously, taking in Gabriel's stained jacket, his unkempt beard, the fresh bruise blooming on the bridge of his nose. 

When had Zh'rethin become Fleet Admiral? Gabriel was certain they'd never met, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't know who he was. She would have served in the Klingon-Federation war. She would have heard about the _Buran._ She would have seen the briefings about the Other Place.

 _Space is big and memory is short_ , he repeated to himself. _Space is big and memory is short--_

"Yes, sir," he croaked, through a throat that felt like it was about to close up.

The pause that followed was like some kind of despair event horizon, swallowing up all of Gabriel's remaining hope until he could hardly breathe.

"No relation, I presume?" she said at last.

Gabriel's knees nearly gave way with the shock of the reprieve.

"Not that I'm aware of. Sir," he managed.

"Thank Uzaveh. I don't think the 'Fleet could handle more than one." The Admiral's antennae quirked in apparent amusement. 

"Uh. No, sir," Gabriel said, absolutely no idea what she was talking about and too drunk on relief to care. 

"Very well. Carry on, Kirk."

"Sir."

Gabriel turned, walked smartly down the smooth curve of the corridor, as swiftly as propriety would allow, and by the time he heard her cry of disgust at the cold, bitter mess she'd just sipped, the elevator doors were already closing.


	6. Chapter 6

_GL: [TEXT REDACTED]_

_AT: he was - persuasive. It took time for the truth to come out._

_GL: how much time?_

_AT: that's classified._

_GL:_ (pause) _what happened to him?_

_AT: you won’t see him. You don’t need to worry about that--_

_GL: that’s not what I asked. What happened to him?_

_AT:_ (pause) _he died._

 _GL:_ (inaudible)

_AT: what?_

_GL: I said I wanted to kill him myself._

_AT: Mr Lorca--_

_GT: how?_

_AT: that’s classified._

_GL: come on. What, death by bureaucracy? I survive five years [TEXT REDACTED], and you're telling me he died here? How?_

_AT: as I said, that’s--_

_GL: classified, yeah. Tell me one thing._

_AT: if I can._

_GL: after what he did - did you give him another ship?_

_AT: I was not a part of the committee that made those dec--_

(sound of glass smashing)

 _GL:_ (inaudible) -- _not what I asked. Did you, Starfleet, give that bastard another ship?_

 _AT:_ (pause) _there is no record of [TEXT REDACTED] setting foot on any other Starfleet vessel after that date._

 _GL:_ (inaudible)

_AT: I’m sorry?_

_GL: I said thank you._

_\- Redacted transcript of debriefing session between Tyler, Commander A. and Lorca, G., 2261_

 

* * *

 

 ******_2270_ **

There was no medkit on the shuttle. At least, not one designed for humans. Because of course there wasn’t. Because of _course_ it was completely sane and rational to go into open space in a shuttle that wasn’t designed to support mammalian lifeforms without even a basic first aid kit.

“Alright, _alright,”_ Mudd muttered, once Gabriel had finished his tirade on the subject. He shook the end of a roll of something silvery and lacy and extremely sticky that the universal translator had rendered as _'Very Best Forever-Stick Wing Mesh’_ from his hand. He clomped back over to the conn and dropped into the chair, shoulders hunched, punching commands into the helm. “I’ll pick up something when we stop for supplies. Geez.”

From behind the bag of ice he’d replicated, Gabriel glared at him.

They had achieved an uneasy truce after they’d regrouped on the shuttle. Mudd was still sulking about the loss of his money and Gabriel, entirely reasonably, he felt, was still sore - in all senses of the word, thanks to the lack of medkit - about the whole ‘being duped into sabotaging Starfleet and subsequent attempted abandonment to take the fall’ thing. But they were stuck together, for now at least, if only because of their mutual need to get as far away from Paris as quickly as possible. 

And because Gabriel had sort of blackmailed Mudd into keeping him around and possibly involving him in future crimes, of course. 

Best not to dwell on that too much right now. 

Theirs had always been a mercenary arrangement. Mudd selling him out should have been right at the top of Gabriel’s not inconsiderable list of risks. But even so, even if it hadn’t exactly come as a _surprise_ , it had stung. With the adrenaline of the day and the risk of being caught receding as Earth shrank ever smaller in the viewscreen, the sour feeling left in Gabriel’s stomach was a very specific cocktail of two-parts anger and one part bitter disappointment.

Which made no sense, because it wasn’t as if he _liked_ Mudd.

_Damnit._

His therapist was going to be very busy, once he got home.

Mudd had at least stowed away the Admirallotron for the journey, so there was no chance of another data-card related injury, or finding stray Andorian antennae lying around the place. And he had handed over the files without argument when Gabriel showed up, sweatier and more out of breath than he would have liked, at the shuttle as promised.

“A deal’s a deal,” he had said gruffly. 

Gabriel hadn’t let the card out of his sight since. He kept it clutched in his free hand, brushing his thumb along its edge. It caught the light from the stars as the shuttle lurched to warp.

He set the ice pack down and picked up his PADD.

“You’re going to look at that _now?”_ Mudd called to him from the helm, alarmed, his eyebrows shooting up to the heights of his hairline.

“I’ve waited ten years for this,” Gabriel said, calmly, as the device powered up. “Give me one good reason I should wait another minute longer.”

“Because I for one am not prepared to put up with you moping all the way home when you find something there you don’t like,” Mudd replied with a lofty shrug.

“I don’t mope,” Gabriel retorted, and immediately wished that he hadn’t, unable to keep a defensive note from his voice.

“Oh, please. I’ve never met anyone more predisposed to moping than you, Gabe.”

“What makes you think I’ll find something I don’t like?” Gabriel asked, keen to change the topic. Mudd rolled his eyes.

“Because, _Sherlock,_ files don’t get classified because they’re all sunshine and, and - puppies. Files get classified because somewhere, something went so badly wrong that someone wanted to make sure nobody ever spoke about it again. And _those_ files are the most classified classified files I’ve ever come across.” Mudd spun back around in his chair, a movement that somehow conveyed the fact that the regard in which he now held Gabriel resided several million miles below sea level. 

Gabriel rotated the card between finger and thumb. Over and over. Over and over.

It was a long way back to Dj’reek. A long time to wonder.

Mudd stiffened in his seat at the _click_ of the card slotting into the PADD.

“If you will insist upon having feelings in my shuttle, at least try to not get them all over the upholstery,” he sniffed.

Gabriel wasn’t listening. He stared instead at the names on the three files blinking on the screen.

_ >>CORNWELL, K. _

_ >>GEORGIOU, P. _

_ >>LORCA, G. _

He tapped a finger on the edge of the PADD, suddenly uncertain. He had, he realised with a sinking feeling, absolutely no idea where to start with any of this. No idea what he was looking for.

Mudd, Gabriel was forced to admit, had a point. Gabriel hadn’t planned this bit. Hadn’t dared. Thinking about reading the files meant that they would have to _get_ the files, and getting the files had felt so remote a possibility that he hadn’t even allowed himself to hope that it would actually happen. Safer to presume that they wouldn’t, that he’d have to go back empty-handed, regroup, come at the problem from another angle. 

But they had got the files. And now--

If Gabriel _had_ let himself plan this bit, it wouldn’t involve reading about - whatever was on the data card with a thumping headache while stuck in an increasingly stuffy shuttle with Harcourt Fenton Mudd. He’d have wanted peace and quiet. Somewhere he could give his friends’ memories the respect and attention they deserved. 

Somewhere he could - react, without anybody seeing. 

Gabriel glanced up at Mudd, who was now pretending to ignore him with such outrageous dramatic flair that he could have won awards. 

Perhaps there _was_ something that Gabriel could try to work out. Something that might help him start to piece this all together.

He tapped the last file on the screen, the files that should have been his, and ran a search.

_Harcourt Fenton Mudd_

No results.

Gabriel frowned.

_Harry Mudd_

Nothing.

Gabriel drummed his fingers on the back of the PADD, and tried one more time.

_Jim Kirk_

He hadn’t really expected that to work, but a lead ball of disappointment settled in his stomach nonetheless. 

“Is there any chance the files got corrupted?” he called over the rattle of the engines to Mudd, who responded with a truculent huff, as though the very idea were offensive to him.

"I got you exactly what you wanted, Gabe. The locked files. The stuff you can't remember. Everything after the _Buran_ up to 2257, just like you said _._ I'm not responsible for what's in them."

 _Or not in them,_ Gabriel thought glumly.

Mudd had repeatedly dodged the question of how he had met - Him. Gabriel Lorca. And now, the files were hiding the same thing. 

Gabriel closed the search function and flipped through the contents more or less at random, trying to suppress the feeling of panic that grew with every empty folder he opened. Text files, audio files, images, video - all blank; all wiped, according to the metadata, within the space of a few days in 2257. All of this, this whole stupid scheme, had been for nothing - he had buddied up with a criminal and took a stolen shuttle and _used an android to break into the Fleet Admiral’s office_ and he had nothing--

Not nothing. He was on to something. He'd been sure of that the first time he had met Mudd, and now - Starfleet couldn't have made him any more suspicious if they'd labelled the files 'nothing  to see here' in giant flashing letters. 

There was nothing in his files, and that meant … something. 

_Great. Helpful. Really insightful, Lorca._

OK. Regroup, come at the problem from a different angle. What did he know? Not much - the details they'd been willing to tell him at his debriefing had been sketchy at best, and the intervening ten years hadn't done much to improve that picture. But he knew that the Other Him hadn't been given another commission after the _Buran_ , and, at some point, somehow, he'd died. What had he been up to in the time in between?

There was a folder marked _'CORRESPONDENCE'._ Gabriel scrolled halfheartedly through the results, expecting a whole heap of yet more nothing and almost jumped when words actually appeared on the screen. 

_… War is never simple. Starfleet needs a captain who can make difficult decisions in the most difficult of circumstances. I have shown, time and time again, that I am that captain._

_There will be a time for a full inquiry into the tragic events on board the_ Buran, _and when that time comes I will give Starfleet my full cooperation. But that time is not now. Now, more than ever, the Federation needs its best to lead the way..._

Gabriel had to start over twice before he understood - no, not understood, before he _accepted_ what he was reading, because the phrases were calm and measured and carefully chosen, they'd been sent from his console, from his own damn apartment, using words that he could hear in his own voice, but the meaning was all twisted up.

The rattling and shaking of the shuttle disguised the trembling of the PADD in his hand, but only just.

He'd lobbied for another ship. The bastard had lobbied for another ship, while the inquest into the _Buran_ was still open, before her ashes had even had time to disperse--

Gabriel closed his eyes, breathed in and out slowly. If he tried to process - that right now, he might never stop. Put it to one side, put it in a box, bury the box, deal with it later. Or never. Just fire the box out into open space and never think about its contents ever again.

Right now, he needed facts. Back to work.

The rest of the file was fragmented, badly, just a few scattered words left as evidence of the debate that had raged there. 

And then.

_Response from Cornwell, Vice Admiral K._

Gabriel hardly dared to breathe while he read the words that followed.

_… In light of the circumstances, I find that I cannot support this application. As his Flag Officer, I recommend that Captain Lorca is temporarily redeployed to a tactical role at Command HQ, where he can more readily access further appropriate psychological treatment..._

Desk duty. The Other Him would have hated that. _He_ would have hated that.

Relief coursed through Gabriel, and he suddenly became aware of the sweat that was sticking the shirt to his back, of how tightly his jaw was clenched.

Of course she had realised that something was wrong. Of _course_ she had.

_Thank you, Kat._

There was no mention of a Gabriel Lorca working in Tactical, or any other role at HQ, for that matter. The Other Him must have - got spooked and run away? Been forced out of the ‘Fleet? Got arrested? Archives had clearly not been a priority during the war, because there was nothing to explain his absence. Just - silence, _more_ silence, and seemingly endless empty files.

Gabriel pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and kneaded it, trying to concentrate. 

What would he have done? What _did_ he do, in almost the same situation? Used the war as cover. Got out. Laid low, found an ally--

Gabriel looked up, slowly.

The shuttle was dimly lit for the night cycle - night, how long had he been staring at the files? Too long, judging by the ache in his neck and the burning in his eyes - but Mudd was still at the helm, face bathed in blue light as he hunched over a screen. Planning something nefarious, no doubt. Like holding up a bank with three Tenebian skunks stacked in a trenchcoat, or trying to work out if he could install a grappling hook up the Robo-Admiral’s nose. Whatever it was, he was engrossed in it, quiet, for a change. 

Gabriel frowned at the back of Mudd’s head, tapping his thumb against the side of the PADD, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

At some point in that handful of months between the _Buran_ and the Other Him dying - whenever that had been, because his files were once again frustratingly silent on that score - he had met Mudd. Pissed him off, too, judging by the greeting Gabriel had received when he turned up on Mudd’s doorstep. 

_“I can kill you again, Lorca! I’ve had plenty of practice--”_

At the time, Gabriel had been too distracted by the phaser in Mudd’s hand to make much sense of the words coming out of his mouth, but now--

He swallowed.

Mudd brushed some crumbs off the front of his shirt, absently, and in the process smeared something greasy all over it.

OK, so maybe it didn’t seem … likely. Mudd was unpredictable, sure, an adept liar, utterly unprincipled, and he’d shown no remorse for trying to bring down Starfleet with a virus or for nearly abandoning Gabriel. But he was also, fundamentally, the worst criminal Gabriel had ever met. It was almost inconceivable that Harcourt Fenton Mudd could have succeeded where a series of assassins, attacks and agony booths had failed and actually _killed_ the Other Him.   

_Maybe He underestimated Mudd. You did, after all._

One Gabriel Lorca dead, another talked into a completely ridiculous scheme, and Mudd - there, somehow, at the heart of it all--

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” 

Gabriel shook himself. Mudd was looking right at him.

“I’m - not. Just thinking.”

“Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if you could think in a different direction, thank you _very_ much, you’re giving me the heebie jeebies.” Mudd screwed up the wrapper of whatever it was he’d been eating, aimed it in the general vicinity of the recycler and, when it missed and bounced off of the bulkhead instead, showed no inclination to go and retrieve it. “So. Are you all cured? That beardy bonce of yours finally firing on all nacelles?”

“Not yet,” Gabriel replied slowly. No need to spook him--

“Ah well. Never mind. It’ll come to you, I’m sure. You know what’s supposed to be _really_ great for memory?” Gabriel shook his head. “Sleep. Gets the little grey cells all raring to go--”

“What?”

“I want to go to _sleep_ and you’ve been blocking the beds for the last five hundred years,” Mudd whined. “Scoot so I can pull out the bunks, will you?” 

Mudd didn’t wait for an answer, just stood up and wafted Gabriel away from the seat where he’d installed himself. “Computer? Time for beddy-byes.”

The computer chirped its bafflement, a sentiment Gabriel could thoroughly sympathise with.

“Computer, bunks,” Mudd sighed, defeated. 

Gabriel lay back on the rock-hard mattress, very much not sleeping, and listened as, in the bunk above him, his murderer began to snore. 

*

Gabriel wasn’t aware of drifting off, but he _was_ aware of waking up, as his already sore face bumped against the underside of Mudd’s bunk. For a few disconcerting, disorienting moments, he couldn’t work out why this would be, until he realised with a lurch that it was because he was floating above his own bunk - everything was floating, in fact, all the trash, the useless medkit, the tools that Mudd had repeatedly refused to stow away--

“Status report!” Gabriel yelped, flailing in an attempt to right himself.

“Aha! You’re awake. Excellent.” Mudd, strapped into the pilot’s seat, decked out in a set of lurid orange-spotted pyjamas, was just about the only thing in the cabin that wasn’t floating, though even then the tips of his hair seemed to be trying to evacuate his face. Gabriel saw his hand move to the artificial gravity controls, and realised too late what he was about to do.

“Don’t--!”

The trash, the useless medkit, the tools and Gabriel all plummeted together as gravity was restored. He landed with a thud on the unyielding mattress and the PADD, which he must have fallen asleep holding, caromed off his stomach, knocking the breath clean out of him.

“‘Status report’?” Mudd chuckled, unbuckling himself from the helm. He smoothed back his hair. “Really, Gabe?”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Gabriel gasped.

“You overslept. Very unlike you, you’re usually up with the larks - whatever a lark is - stomping around the place with your exercising and your healthy balanced breakfasts.” He pronounced the phrase as if it was a slightly distasteful fetish that he was with great effort refraining from passing judgement upon. “I was concerned--”

“So you _switched off the gravity?”_

“I think you missed the part where I said I was concerned--” 

“I missed the part where you explain what the hell is going on!” Gabriel growled, heaving himself off the bunk. His head was thumping, his heart was thumping - he had to get himself back under control, couldn’t let Mudd see that he was rattled--

“Oh. We’ll be docking soon.”

“Docking?”

“We will be making the swiftest of stops for supplies, seeing as _somebody_ neglected to bring me back _one single_ fancy pastry from Paris.”

“That’s it?” Gabriel asked, suspicious. “That’s all?” 

“Well, that, and I have a little business to conduct.”

There it was. 

“What kind of business?” Gabriel sighed.

“None of yours.” Mudd clapped his hands together. “So! Best foot forward, Gabe. Try and find something a little less - establishment to wear. These people really aren’t the right audience.”

Gabriel looked down. He was still wearing the Starfleet-issue pants, the undershirt - he hadn’t even taken his boots off before falling asleep.

“Right,” he mumbled, suddenly weary again.

“And don’t hog the bathroom!” Mudd called after him as he traipsed off.

Gabriel located the least travel-worn options from his bag - clean laundry felt like a distant memory, and the onboard replicator seemed unable to handle the concept of a shirt with any fewer than four sleeves - and splashed some water on his face, to try and calm himself down as much as to attempt to make himself more presentable. There didn’t seem to be much to be done on that score; the bruise on the bridge of his nose had bloomed impressively, and the bags under his eyes were no better for a night mostly spent worrying about whether Mudd would crash the shuttle before he murdered him, or after. 

Whatever Mudd had planned, the unscheduled diversion might actually be a blessing in disguise. Gabriel couldn’t read the rest of those files here, with Mudd breathing down his neck, he realised that now. Maybe he could finally get a bit of peace and quiet, some privacy that didn’t require locking himself in this disgusting bathroom--

“You look fine, Gabe!” Mudd yelled, hammering at the locked door in question. “Hurry up!”

While Mudd ran through apparently his entire repertoire of arias in the shower, Gabriel stared at the station growing ever larger in the viewscreen. It wasn’t a Starfleet facility, that was for sure; it was gnarled and pockmarked, seemingly bolted together from leftover pieces of space junk, like some huge experiment by a mad scientist. It was definitely not the sort of place you wore a Starfleet uniform, even a stolen one. 

It also was definitely not the sort of place you procured a medkit. At least, not a - traditional medkit.

Gabriel heard the bathroom door slide open and Mudd’s humming draw closer.

“Where are we--” he started, and promptly forgot the end of his sentence at the sight that met his eyes when he turned around.

Mudd was festooned in a flowing, frilly, puffy-sleeved, salmon pink - ‘ _shirt’_ was probably the right word for it, though Gabriel would have opted for _‘eyesore’_ or _‘monstrosity’_ before he arrived at it. Whatever it was, it revealed a frankly alarming amount of chest hair, and was worn over high-waisted, gold-braided, blue trousers, cinched in around his middle with a huge, ornate belt. His scruffy beard was gone, and in its place all that remained was a slightly red chin and a fussy little moustache, the ends of which had been waxed upwards into ostentatious curls. In his ear, as a finishing touch to this whole cacophony, hung a single, sparkling gem. 

Mudd struck a pose. 

“Well? What do you think?” he asked, with a flourish.

“You look … different,” Gabriel said, with what he felt was a truly heroic amount of tact. 

Mudd sighed.

“Different?” he repeated. “ _Different?_ You see, that’s the problem with you, Gabe. There’s not an artistic bone in your body.”

“What prompted the, uh, this?” Gabriel managed, shifting to scratch his face in an attempt to cover up the laugh that threatened to give him away. 

“Gabriel, if I pull off that which I am about to attempt, it will be the deal of the _millennium,”_ Mudd replied, stroking the tips of his ridiculous moustache. “You know what they say.”

“I’m - really not sure I do.”

“Dress for success, Gabe! If you want people to take you seriously in business, you have to dress the part.”

Mudd certainly looked _a_ part, that was for sure. Gabriel just didn’t know what it was.

He had a horrible feeling he would find out before too long.


	7. Chapter 7

_[…] The original inquest - if it can even be called that - was rushed and botched in the name of the war effort. We were assured that a thorough investigation would take place at a later date. We were assured that justice would be served. We were assured that we would be given the truth. This never materialised._

_The families of the_ Buran _have been consistently and systematically denied any chance of closure, and with it any hope of being able to move on with their lives. We call on Starfleet to recognise that the return of Gabriel Lorca represents an opportunity to draw a line under this catastrophe once and for all._

 

 _\- Dr Harriet Braithwaite-Jones,_ Justice for the Buran _press release, 2261_

 

_ * _

_ Command has become aware of a security breach affecting onboard computers. Subspace messages have been spoofed and disguised as distress signals. When answered, these signals transmit a short video purporting to show an unknown Federation vessel.  _

_ All vessels are ordered to install the latest security upgrades with immediate effect. All onboard computers affected by the hack should be quarantined and reported to Starfleet Intelligence. Under no circumstances should the video be disseminated further; the malware it contains should be considered a serious risk to security.   _

 

_ \- Transmission from Starfleet Command, 2270 _

 

 

* * *

**_Station Four, 2270_ **

They docked at the station - no credentials were requested or given, Gabriel couldn’t help but notice, which didn’t exactly help his nerves - and disembarked into a passage that was exactly as Frankensteined as the station’s exterior had suggested. The rivets in the mismatched bulkhead panels were rusted, and looked more like barnacles clinging to the side of an ancient sea vessel. 

“Nice place,” Gabriel muttered. He leaned cautiously against the bulkhead in question, half afraid it might collapse under his weight, grimacing as the change in pressure made his ears pop.

“It does have a certain rustic charm, doesn’t it?” Mudd agreed, content.

There was a perfunctory customs stop, staffed by a gnarled Andorian who had altogether more muscles than could possibly be necessary for someone who worked in administration. Gabriel kept his expression carefully neutral at both the amount of credits that Mudd cheerfully parted with as a ‘docking fee’, and the extremely large phaser rifle slung over the Andorian’s mountainous shoulders. 

“They take customs and excise _very_ seriously here,” Mudd told Gabriel, as they walked away, the Andorian’s glare hot on their backs.

“Apparently so.”

They made a strange pair, Mudd a cartoonish approximation of a swashbuckler, Gabriel doing his best to blend into the background, knuckles white on the strap of the bag on his shoulder. A few curious - suspicious? - glances were turned their way as they passed, a fact that only seemed to feed Mudd’s swagger, which became more pronounced with every step. 

“Where the hell are we?” Gabriel muttered to him.

“We call it Station Four.”

'We' being the people Mudd had just paid protection money to, presumably. 

“Where are the other three?” Gabriel asked.

“Oh, I think bits of them are still here.” 

Their footsteps rang out on the metal grille of the corridor. Gabriel tried not to think about how easy it would be to detach this arm from the rest of the station if, say, someone from the Federation showed up asking too many awkward questions.

“OK, Gabe. This is where I leave you for a while,” Mudd announced, as they reached a noisy, bustling marketplace. 

"I'm not coming with you?" Gabriel asked, eyeing the crowd anxiously. 

“Gabriel, your utter lack of business acumen is already well documented. No, you go let your hair down. Try the _zhlep._ Steer clear of Orlan if you like all of your limbs in their current configuration. I’ll meet you back at the shuttle in - two hours.” He fiddled with the frills on his shirt. “How do I look?”

 _Ridiculous,_ Gabriel thought.

“I’m sure you’ll … surprise them,” was what he said instead, every bit of his diplomatic training strained to its limit. 

Mudd sighed.

“Thanks, Gabe.” He patted Gabriel’s shoulder and sniffed, apparently deeply moved. “You’re a real pal.”

“It’s really nothing,” Gabriel said dourly, as his arm began to ache. 

Mudd took a deep breath and puffed out his chest even further.

“Wish me luck!” he declared, and strode away before Gabriel could respond. 

“Good luck,” Gabriel muttered. 

The market was far too busy for Gabriel’s liking. He skulked along its fringes, as close to the bulkheads as he could manage, and half-heartedly perused the food stalls, including the recommended _zhlep_ , thinking that anything would be better than another meal from the shuttle’s highly suspect replicator. But after a cursory look at the fatty, greasy steam rising off containers of questionable nutritional value and even more questionable origin, Gabriel decided he’d stick with the ration bar in his bag. 

Everybody here was armed. Some of the dealers wore disruptors and knuckle dusters like they were jewellery; others concealed their weapons just sufficiently to provide a veneer of respectability, but always with enough of a tell that anyone they met would be left in no doubt about what would happen if they crossed them.

Gabriel found himself hoping that Mudd had stashed a phaser somewhere under all those frills.

A movement in the corner of Gabriel’s eye caught his attention. No; not movement, because the whole market was pushing and shoving and undulating constantly - a lack of movement. A figure, cloaked entirely in black, stock still amid the crowd, staring straight at him. Or, at least, facing straight at him. It was hard to tell, with the mask they were wearing. 

Affecting a calm he didn’t feel, Gabriel turned and doubled back as if he’d forgotten something, weaving through the crowd. He rounded a corner into another row of stalls, looked up, and—

Nothing.

_Getting paranoid, Lorca._

The problem, Gabriel realised, was that he was somewhere that _Harry Mudd_ felt at home. _Everything_ was suspicious here. There was too much vying for his attention, with no way of working out what was actually a problem, and what was just a regular day at the office for this place. The whole station felt like it was about one wrong breath away from a mass brawl, a fact which didn't seem to bother anyone else for some reason.

“There a motel here?” Gabriel asked the stallholder nearest him. The Caitian, who looked as though she had won about five fights already that morning, sized Gabriel up, took in the bruise on his face and the scars on his hands, and apparently decided that he was one of them.

“That way.” She nodded curtly in the same direction that a steady stream of equally travel-weary aliens were headed. “It’s not exactly the Grand Xril.”

“It’ll do. Thanks.” 

It most assuredly was not the Grand Xril. The Orion clerk at what Gabriel charitably thought of as the reception desk - which was behind a high-power forcefield, always a sign of a classy establishment - inspected him with barely concealed disdain as he approached.

“I need a room for a couple hours,” Gabriel said, once it became clear that no pleasantries would be forthcoming.

“Expecting company?” she sneered.

“No. Just me.”

The disdain only increased, if anything.

“There are 900 channels. I’m sure you’ll find something to entertain yourself with.”

“What?”

“Cred reader’s to your left. Payment up front.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth and waved his chip over the reader, and a small slot opened in the forcefield just enough to allow the clerk to slide a card key over to him. The hairs on the back of Gabriel’s hand sizzled as he reached for it.

“Have a pleasant stay,” the clerk intoned.

The room, once Gabriel finally located it in the labyrinth of corridors that the card unlocked, was - spartan. Bed and screen, both orange-hued under a reluctant, flickering light. A broken air filter rattling somewhere in the pipes under his feet. Utilitarian, metal-bowled bathroom. All designed to be easy to sluice down, Gabriel realised, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.

It was horrible. It was also blissfully, gloriously, devoid of any sign of Harcourt Fenton Mudd.

Gabriel switched on the screen, swiping hastily through the less salubrious end of the programme list - which seemed to cater for every possible combination of species and genders imaginable, including ... amorphous goo? He watched with fascinated confusion for a few seconds before feeling faintly grubby about it all - towards the news channels.

There were no reports of a heist at the Council complex, no BOLOs out for criminals matching their description. Nothing to indicate that anyone had noticed anything untoward at all.

_Like a ghost._

He left the news anchor talking to themselves - some dull announcement about a spate of curiously-coded subspace messages - and extracted the PADD from his bag.

He only had a couple of precious Mudd-free hours. Less than that, now. Nothing like enough time to mine into the data. But long enough to find out what happened. At - the end. 

The bed sagged distressingly under his weight as he sat down. 

Gabriel stared at the PADD, uncertainty gnawing away at his earlier urge to delve into the data. His files had been - well, his. They were about his life. The life that had been stolen from him. These files were all that remained of his friends’ lives, and _he_ had stolen them. 

He wouldn’t have had to resort to any of this if Starfleet had just _told_ him—

It didn’t mean that he had the right to know all of it. Or any of it. He was holding information that Pippa and Kat might never have told him, even if they'd all made it out of this in one piece. Having good intentions wasn’t enough. He wasn’t entitled to everything. So. Medical records were out. Anything that wasn’t official Starfleet business was out.

Arbitrary lines drawn, he closed his eyes, pressed the top of the PADD against his forehead, and took a long, deep breath.

“Here goes nothing, I guess,” he muttered. 

He almost needn't have worried about stumbling on too much information. Pippa and Kat’s files were hardly in any better shape than the files that bore his name. Huge swathes were missing - entire months, in Pippa’s case, and Kat’s were shot through with missing hours, days, weeks. 

_Quit stalling, Lorca. Two hours. You can look for patterns later._

He skipped to the final few files on the card.

The timestamp on the next file to scroll into view brought Gabriel up short. 

Their last day. Their last - hours, maybe. 

It seemed too much to hope, after all of the gaps, all of the redacted information, that there would be anything there when he tapped it. But the PADD lit up - split-screen, two ends of a video feed playing simultaneously. 

Them. Both of them. Pippa and Kat. 

Gabriel's throat felt tight, and he willed away the prickle in his eyes that threatened tears. He needed to concentrate. He owed them that, at least. 

He squinted at the screen, trying to pick out any details that might give him a clue about - any of this, anything that was going on. Where they were, for starters. Starships, that much was certain. Two different classes. Kat - red trim on the walls. Orange, maybe? Gabriel rubbed at his beard, frustrated; time was, he could have identified a ‘Fleet ship with his eyes closed - _Constitution class,_ that was it. Pippa - he had no idea. It didn’t remind him of any vessel he’d ever seen, but in any case the lighting was so dim and the video quality so bad, that it was hard to make out much. 

 _“Screens?”_ Pippa’s face was a moue of distaste. _“I hadn’t realised things were so backwards here_ — _”_

Harder to figure out was why Pippa was out of uniform, and instead wearing some decidedly non-regulation - leather? Black leather. Very - tight black leather. There were straps. And studs. 

He’d never seen her look so … that. 

Undercover mission. Had to be. 

 _“Not my choice,”_ Kat was saying. _“The hologram system’s been decommissioned. It’s a long story.”_

And then there was the fact that they looked for all the world as though they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. 

The relief that had washed over Gabriel at the sight of the two of them, the thought that whatever they had faced, it had been together, began to ebb.

 _"Is everything ready?"_ Kat asked.

_"As ready as it can be."_

_"Good. Then you need to move quickly. Final evac is in four minutes. Say your goodbyes, report to me on the bridge in five."_

A long silence stretched between them; Pippa’s face a mask that Gabriel remembered all too well from the wrong side of a bad poker hand, Kat’s taut, more weary than Gabriel had ever seen her, but - calm. Resolute. 

At last, Kat nodded to herself, like she had confirmed something she had suspected. 

 _“You’re going.”_ It wasn’t a question. 

_“And you are staying.”_

_“It’s the right decision.”_

_“Mine, or yours?”_ Pippa asked. 

_“Both.”_

Pippa raised an eyebrow.

_“Anyone would think that you were pleased to see the back of me, Admiral.”_

_“Pleased? No. But a chance to start again, somewhere you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not..?”_ Kat tilted her head. _“I can see the attraction.”_

 _“That’s why I was a little surprised when I didn’t find_ your _name on the manifest.”_

Kat’s expression tightened.

 _“What’s that supposed to mean?”_ she asked.

Pippa shrugged, laconically.

_“Simply that, in my experience, a little distance helps to gain a fresh perspective on a problem.”_

_“I prefer to face mine up close.”_

Pippa scowled. 

_“It’s overrated.”_

_“Which is why you’ve volunteered for a mission that will put you in close proximity with_ your _biggest problem, I presume?”_ said Kat, chin lifted like she knew she'd scored a point. 

The video might have been grainy, but Gabriel could picture the exact shade of pink that had bloomed on Pippa’s cheeks.

It was just about the only thing in all of this that felt familiar. Pippa and Kat had always sparred, always enjoyed the challenge of watching the balance of a conversation shift and turn between them. Gabriel had never been able to keep up with them when they got started, not really. But it had never been - like this. It had never _mattered_ who came out on top. 

The way Pippa stood, the way Kat watched her, that weirdly stilted way they were speaking to each other. None of it was right. 

 _“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”_ Pippa said curtly.

 _“Of course not.”_ Kat shifted, chewing at the inside of her cheek. It was just a fleeting moment of uncertainty, but Gabriel would have recognised it anywhere. _“Tell her - tell her thank you.”_

Pippa sniffed.

_“That seems somewhat inadequate.”_

_“It is. But what else is there?”_

_"I was thinking - a statue. A monument, perhaps."_

_"Something tasteful in gold?"_ Kat asked blandly.

Pippa rocked her head from side to side, wrinkling her face like gold would be a good start.

 _"It won't be forgotten,"_ Kat said quietly. _"What she did. What you all did. I promise you that."_

A comms panel chimed somewhere behind her. She turned her head to listen, but kept her eyes locked on Pippa.

 _“Admiral Cornwell to the bridge,”_ the voice over the intercom intoned.

_"On my way."_

She straightened the front of her jacket and nodded to Pippa.

_“Well. It’s been … interesting.”_

Pippa raised an eyebrow.

 _“That’s it?”_ she asked, feigning disappointment. _“No rousing speeches? Everyone else here seems to enjoy them.”_

A strange, rueful sort of half-smile played around Kat’s lips.

_“Maybe another time.”_

As Kat turned to go, Pippa, in her gloomy cabin, started forward.

 _“Katrina_ — _”_ Kat looked up, just in time to see Pippa settle back into her previous casual affectation. _“It’s not too late. To change your mind.”_

Kat’s expression softened.

 _“Come with you, you mean? Just like old times?”_ she said ironically. 

Pippa rolled her eyes.

_“I hope not. For both our sakes.”_

Kat looked away, hiding an almost-laugh.

 _“My place is here,”_ she said at last, so calm that Gabriel couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined the note of regret in her voice. _"There's a lot of work left to do."_

Pippa looked unconvinced, but nodded nonetheless. 

_“Very well. Good luck, Admiral.”_

_“And you,”_ Kat’s lips quirked in that strange smile again, “Captain _Georgiou.”_

Pippa opened her mouth to respond, but Kat had already reached out to end the transmission, and with that, the video cut out. 

It took a long moment for Gabriel’s surroundings to come back into focus. The wheeze of the environmental system, the monotone of the news anchor, it all seemed to be coming from a long way away. 

Gabriel stared again at the timestamp on the video, breathing deep, trying to anchor himself with solid facts. It was easier to focus on numbers, on dates and times and patterns, than to allow himself to think about the fact that that must have been Pippa and Kat’s last conversation. And that they had - known it. 

_A chance to start again, somewhere you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not…_

There weren't many places in the galaxy that you could go and never return. There were still uncharted quadrants, of course, distant colonies - but they would all take time to arrive at, and there would be nothing to prevent someone from following you.  

There were places _outside_ the galaxy, of course. 

Gabriel shook himself. The idea was ridiculous. You’d need - technology beyond anything the Federation had ever seen, some kind of singularity, or—

_Or an ion storm, a transporter malfunction, and a whole lot of bad timing._

But that had been an accident. And his route home might have been intentional, but it had only been marginally less unlikely. 

_It won't be forgotten. What she did. What you all did._

Gabriel screwed up his face and tried to just - think. Think clearly. This had come easy, once,  before all of this happened; acting decisively, cutting through bullshit. Being _sure._ But now … it was like there was a nebula in his head, sending sensors haywire. He couldn't tell real from fake, couldn't tell which readings he needed to worry about. There was just the fog, and the endless fear that he was missing something. 

There were too many questions. The ship, the mission, the way they had behaved towards each other, the - other person, that 'she', all of it, none of it made any sense.

The last frame of the video was still frozen on the screen. His friends' final conversation hung suspended, like Pippa could still get the final word in, like Kat could be persuaded to go with her, like things would be OK, like there could be - more, somehow, if he hit play.

Gabriel’s shoulders kvetched as he rolled them a few times, trying and failing to stretch out a week's worth of stress and crappy mattresses. 

It would be so easy to just … stop. Get some sleep. Go home. Leave them with the possibility of an unfinished conversation, with more still to say. 

If he carried on, if he found what he was looking for, there would be no more unfinished conversations. No more possibilities. No more what ifs. 

He had thought that was a good thing, before. 

He couldn’t leave things like this. Couldn’t leave his friends so changed by the war that they were barely speaking to each other. Couldn’t crumble at the first sign of something difficult. Couldn’t prove Mudd right. 

Gabriel glanced at the chronometer in the corner of the screen. Less than an hour left, now. It might be days before he got this kind of privacy again.

He scrabbled back through the data, combing for - a mission brief, a destination, a crew manifest, something, anything. But there were not many files left on the card after that. Even fewer that hadn’t been wiped. And all of them were dated - later. 

Inquest files, he realised with a dull ache. He was looking at inquest files. 

His brow furrowed as he read one of the names on the list of interviews. 

_PIKE, CAPTAIN C._

Gabriel thought back to the footage of Kat. The red trim of a Constitution Class vessel in the background.

The PADD felt heavy in his hand as he opened the file. The little holographic projector integrated into its casing whirred into life.

A couple of flashes as the system started up, and there he was, the image hovering in ghostly monochrome a couple of feet ahead of Gabriel. The Golden Boy. Captain Starfleet. Chris Pike. 

The flicker of the hologram only served to make Chris look even more grey than Gabriel remembered. But there was a haunted expression around his eyes that was more than a trick of the light.

He was sat, stiff, at a desk flanked by windows; opposite him was a stern-faced Starfleet official, who paid him no attention as he reviewed notes on the PADD in his hand. Again, Gabriel searched for clues that might hint at a location, and again, beyond the most basic of deductions, he was frustrated. The room seemed to have been designed to induce maximum discomfort, glare pouring through the windows and straight into the eyes of the person sitting in the deliberately uncomfortable chair in front of the desk. It was utterly devoid of distinguishing features. It could have been the room they held him for his own interrogation - his own _debriefing -_ all those years ago, for all that Gabriel could tell. It might even have been one of the many interchangeable stern-faced officials who had questioned him. 

 _“God, I hate holograms,”_ Chris was muttering, watching the recorder in the middle of the desk as if it was a bomb that had failed to detonate. _“Is that thing on?”_

Gabriel kept waiting for it to break. That smile. That stupid, brilliant smile. The one that reassured you that everything was going to be alright, even when it couldn’t possibly be. But it never came and, in its absence, Gabriel felt a pit grow deep in his stomach, in spite of the irrational anger that had bubbled up at the sight of him.

 _“We find that it provides the most accurate record of these meetings.”_ The officer in the chair looked up abruptly, as though Chris had only just arrived, setting the PADD down with a click. _“And yes. It is. Let’s begin. State your name and rank.”_

 _“Christopher Pike, Captain of the USS_ Enterprise _—”_

The holograms stuttered. When the picture resumed, it took Gabriel a few seconds to realise that there had been a jump in the conversation, so still was Chris sitting. 

 _"— all non-essential personnel evacuated to the_ Enterprise. _A core crew remained—"_

“What the hell?” Gabriel muttered, as the holograms juddered again. 

_"— and Philippa Georgiou."_

Gabriel sat up straight. 

_"Why did Captain Georgiou remain on board?"_

Chris sighed, his irritation barely concealed.

_"I didn't exactly have time to consult with her, but I presume that she felt her - expertise would be of use."_

_"You don't presume it was because of her relationship with—"_

This time, when the holograms faltered back to life, Chris looked as though he'd aged years in the minutes, hours - however long had passed. He was as straight-backed in his chair as before, but now his hands were clasped tightly in front of him, eyes tired. 

_"— you scanned for survivors?"_

_"There was nothing left to scan. The ship was obliterated."_

Gabriel's mouth felt dry. The other ship. Pippa. Wherever they had been going, whatever the mission had been, it didn’t matter. They hadn’t made it.

The hologram shuddered, but this time it was because the PADD, and with it the projector, was shaking in Gabriel's hands.

 _"Mm."_ The officer turned to another PADD next to him. _"And yet the_ Enterprise _'s computers did not record any sort of an explosion, let alone one of the magnitude you described."_

_"Computers can be compromised. As you well know. I'm telling you what I saw with my own two eyes."_

_"So fully did you trust your own senses, in fact, that you failed to carry out any of the standard sensor sweeps as set out in—"_

_"I had just watched my friends die. My own ship was severely damaged and in danger. A lapse in protocol was the last thing I was worried about."_

_"This was not the only, uh, lapse in protocol you suffered that day."_ The officer folded his hands on the desk. _"How did Admiral Cornwell come to be on deck 5, section 2?"_

Chris stiffened, and Gabriel found his grip on the PADD tightening in sympathy.

_"I've already—"_

_"Again, please."_

A muscle in Chris's cheek twitched.

 _"A live torpedo was lodged in the hull, converging on deck 5, section 2."_ He sounded hollow, like he was reading from a report. _"We were under heavy bombardment, and all munitions officers were occupied. My first officer and Admiral Cornwell left the bridge to attempt to disarm it."_

_"You were so short of personnel that you sent your first officer and a Vice Admiral to deal with this situation?"_

_"I didn't_ send _them anywhere. Number One volunteered for the job, and the Admiral went with her. I don't know whether you ever tried to stop Admiral Cornwell once she set her mind on a path, Commodore, but—"_

_"You did not suggest that a more appropriate member of the crew be located?"_

_"I can think of no-one more appropriate than—"_

_"So, no."_ The officer inclined his head, and paused to make a brief note on his PADD. Chris watched him like a hawk. _"Continue."_

_"You asked how Admiral Cornwell came to be on deck 5, section 2. I told you."_

_"And I asked you to continue. Captain."_

Gabriel's jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.

 _"They were unable to defuse the torpedo. Secondary detonation had already been triggered."_ Chris's voice was so level, he might have been narrating a routine deflector diagnostic. _"In addition, they had identified that one of the blast doors had been jammed in the attack."_

_"Which is when you sent for the nearest engineering officer."_

_"There was no time. Admiral Cornwell's assessment was that the only course of action was to isolate the blast by releasing the door manually."_

_"From inside the room, you mean?"_

_"From inside the room."_

_"And where were you when Admiral Cornwell made this - assessment?"_

_"When my superior officer gave me my orders, you mean?"_

_"Where?"_

Chris looked ashen.

_"We were inside the room."_

_"And then?"_

_"Admiral Cornwell activated the manual release."_

_"From inside—"_

Chris’s fist thumped the table between them so hard that the water in the glass before him jumped.

 _"Yes, from_ inside the room _."_

The officer allowed the ring of his words to fade away before he replied, looking down the length of his nose at Chris.

_"I simply wish to confirm the facts, Captain. What happened next?"_

_"The blast door closed."_

_"And then?"_

_"The torpedo detonated."_ Chris was hoarse.

_"And Admiral Cornwell was—?"_

Chris blinked and looked away for the first time.

_"Inside the room."_

The officer nodded. 

_"Thank you, Captain. That will be all for today."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to PoppaeaSabina, who can always be counted upon to have a couple of awesome character names on standby.

_CAPT. TANAQUIL DUARTE: Shuttles do not just appear out of empty space, Lieutenant._

_LT. CORIAN PATEL: This one did, sir!_

_TD: Lifesigns?_

_CP: One, humanoid, but it's - erratic_ —

 _TD: Open a channel. Unidentified Shuttle, this is Captain Tanaquil Duarte of the Federation Starship_ Jemison _. Please identify yourself._

_UNIDENTIFIED SHUTTLE: (Unintelligible laughter)_

_TD: Unidentified Shuttle, if you do not provide credentials, I will be forced to_ —

 _US: (Unintelligible laughter) This is Captain Gabriel Lorca, USS_ Buran _, reporting for duty. Sorry I'm late. Got a little waylaid._

_CP: Running checks against Starfleet records now, sir._

_TD: Thank you, Patel. Captain_ ... _?_

 _GL: Lorca. Gabriel Lorca. Am I glad to see you, Federation Starship_ Jemison _. (Unintelligible laughter)_

_TD: Captain Lorca, do you require assistance?_

_CP: Sir, you really ought to see this_ —

_GL: Better late than never. A beam out would be a great start. I'm, uh, a little tied up over here._

_TD: Transporter Room, lock on Unidentified Shuttle._

_CP: I'll have Security meet him._

_GL:_ _Hey, Captain Duarte? Two things you need to know._

_TD: And what are those, Captain Lorca?_

_GL: First - as soon as I'm out of this bucket, I need you to destroy it. Clear?_

_TD: Captain_ — _?_

_GL: Blow it up. Blow the whole thing up. Promise me you'll do it._

_TD: What is the second thing, Captain?_

_GL: Promise me!_

_TD: I - promise. The second thing, Captain?_

_GL: Second - I, uh, I think I'm about to die. Life's a bitch, huh?_

_CP: Sir, his lifesigns have_ —

_TD: Captain Lorca, repeat that last message. Captain? Captain Lorca?_

 

_\- Transcript of audio transmission between USS Jemison and Unidentified Shuttle, 2261_

 

* * *

**_Station Four, 2270_ **

The holograms cut out one last time as the PADD hit the cold metal of the wall and smashed. 

Chris had known. Chris had known all along. Chris had been there. Chris had seen her die. Chris had let her die. Chris had _sent her to die._

The newsreader droned on. The air filter rattled. The light overhead flickered. Everything carried on, everything moved on, except for Gabriel, except for Pippa, except for Kat—

Gabriel wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, elbows on his knees, fists bunched in his hair, but when he finally looked up again there was a different news anchor on the screen, and he felt - drained, dehydrated. Had he been crying? His eyes were sore and his chest hurt. He didn’t remember crying. 

Everything felt like it was happening from behind a screen. It took him a few moments to remember where he was, then _why_ he was there, why he had been crying, and the memory, when it hit like an aftershock, nearly sent him reeling again.

Forcing a few deep breaths that did little to calm him, Gabriel dragged himself to his feet and fumbled his way to the cold metal bathroom. Mechanically, he ran his numb hands under the tap and splashed some water on his face, because it felt like it should help somehow. It didn't, much.

Out in the horrible room once more, Gabriel tapped the sad remains of the PADD with the toe of his boot. The casing hung loose, the screen blank. 

Gabriel sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. He didn't even remember throwing it.

The door buzzed. 

"Damnit." Gabriel ran his hands over his face. He must have outstayed his welcome. "Give me a minute," he barked into the comms panel. 

Crouching in front of the PADD, he gingerly extracted the data card from the wreckage, hoping against hope he hadn't destroyed it. It _looked_ unharmed, but there’d be no way to check until—

The buzzing at the door was now one long, constant note. 

 _"Alright!"_ Gabriel yelled. He kicked the smashed PADD under the bed and stashed the card in his boot, then thumped his fist against the door controls. 

The last person in the universe he wanted to see barrelled into the room. 

 _"I have been worried sick!"_ Mudd declared, striding past him, a riot of colour and frills. "I looked everywhere for you, and you've been hiding away up here the whole time, watching—" He caught sight of the screen and his irritation fizzled out almost instantly into confusion. "... the news? Nine hundred premium channels, and you're watching _the_ _news?"_

"We weren't seen," Gabriel managed, waving a hand at the news anchor by way of explanation.

"Of course we weren't _seen_ ," Mudd replied, exasperated, switching the feed off. "What do you take me for, some kind of amateur?"

"I just - needed to be sure."

Mudd frowned, like he was assessing Gabriel.

"Did something happen?"

"No," Gabriel said, too quickly.

"Yes it did. You’re acting all - weird. Weirder than usual. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Funny. That was exactly how Gabriel felt.

"I'm … I think I'm starting to remember a few things," he lied. 

The light in the room was terrible, so Gabriel couldn't be sure, but Mudd's apparently boundless confidence seemed to falter for a second, permasmile frozen in place just a fraction too long. His moustache twitched from side to side as he considered Gabriel.

"I see," he said slowly. "Well, I'd love to hear about your - emotions," - he pronounced 'emotions’ like it was something he had pulled out of a blocked recycler - "but there'll be plenty of time for all that on the shuttle. Come on. We're late."

"For what?

 _"On the shuttle,_ Gabe, I'll explain later—"

Mudd had already steered Gabriel halfway to the door before he shook himself free.

"We need to talk first."

If pressed, Gabriel would have been completely unable to explain why it was so important that they did this here, now. All he knew was that Mudd was suddenly very twitchy about getting out of there, and so Gabriel was going to do the absolute opposite of what he wanted until he started getting some answers. About any of it. All of it. Why he was _here_ in the first place. He would go back to the very beginning, and work his way from there.

"Oh no." Mudd's face crumpled in an expression of mock contrition. "Are you breaking up with me, Gabe?"

"I'm serious. You haven't been honest with me." Looking back, Gabriel realised, Mudd had done his best to evade every single question he’d put to him since they’d met. 

He had let Chris get away, all those years ago, with all the terrible knowledge he had, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

"That … really doesn't make you special."

 _"Mudd."_ Gabriel ignored the warning twitch of the muscle in his temple. It was like a blindfold had been torn away, and everything was burning, too bright, too _much._ “You’ve been trying to stop me from reading those files ever since we left Paris. Why?”

“I am _merely_ concerned for your wellbeing, as a friend—"

“We are _not friends._ We are not - having a moment here _._ We had a deal. I help you, you help me. So _help me._ ”

“Gabe, I’m flattered, I really am, but I can’t even _begin_ to imagine why you think _I_ would know anything important.”

Mudd’s ‘who, little old me?’ routine had worn as thin as Gabriel’s patience. 

“Then let’s start with how we met, if it’s so unimportant—”

“Ugh, that old thing again - it _is_ unimportant, Gabe—”

And that, after everything Gabriel had just learned, after nearly a decade of being told that he was wrong, that there was nothing to see, that there was no conspiracy, that he should just let it drop, was enough to make him snap.

“What are you hiding?” he snarled, over the roar of the blood pounding in his ears. “What don’t you want me to find out?”

Mudd’s eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Gabriel stared down at his hands. It was as though they belonged to someone else. But - no, they were his, right down to the puckered skin around the snaking scars. 

And they were clamped around Mudd’s throat. 

He didn’t remember putting them there. He didn’t remember shoving Mudd against the wall. But he had, and with enough force that one of the panels had buckled. 

Horrified, Gabriel released him and stumbled back as Mudd slid to the floor, sucking in air with terrible gasps. 

“There he is,” Mudd wheezed. _“That’s_ the Gabriel Lorca I remember.”

Gabriel reeled as though he’d been struck.

“I’m - sorry,” he managed, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m - shit. Shit. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” Mudd spat, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry I ever heard the name Gabriel Lorca, I’m sorry I ever set eyes on you, and I’m sorry that I agreed to this job. You’re like a - a curse—”

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again, it'll never happen again—"

"Excuse me if I find that hard to believe. _You_ may have conveniently forgotten what a ruthless bastard you are, but I certainly haven't."

"I've changed." The words burnt in Gabriel's throat. "I'm - trying to change."

"You don't change, Lorca. People like us, we never change. We're two of a kind. And it’s high time you accepted that."

For a long moment, Mudd’s rasping and Gabriel’s own ragged breaths were the only sounds.

Gabriel had lied too. Right from the start. He'd let Mudd believe that he was someone else. Not a single word he'd uttered since they met was true. He'd regurgitated the lies that Starfleet had fed him, the same lies he'd repeated every single day for nine years. 

He hadn't been allowed to be honest with - anybody for so long, he wasn't sure that he knew what it felt like any more.

“Help me,” Gabriel whispered. “Please. Harry. I - need you.”

From his prone position, heaped on the floor, Mudd considered him.

“Never thought I’d hear _you_ say that,” he muttered eventually. He failed around like an upturned beetle to right himself, and heaved his way to his feet, using the wall for support. Starting forward to offer a hand, Gabriel thought better of it, and hung back instead. "Maybe the sehlat can change its stripes after all."

With the adrenaline fast dissipating, Gabriel’s legs were about ready to give way from underneath him. He sat on the bed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped on his knees, half to disguise how badly they were shaking, and half to make himself as small and non-threatening as possible. 

Angry red marks were already streaking the sides of Mudd’s neck, and Gabriel had to turn away, his chest burning with shame. All it had taken was a flash of emotion and all of the work, all that time he’d spent suppressing his anger, unlearning the violence that had become second nature There, had all been undone.

"I didn't want to do this." Gabriel looked up, alarmed, as Mudd reached into the bag that was still slung over his shoulders. "This wasn't supposed to be for you..."

Mudd pulled out a thermos, unscrewed the lid, and poured a mug of something steaming. 

"This was _supposed_ to be for the journey," he sniffed, handing it to Gabriel. "But you look like you need it more than me."

Gabriel peered at its contents. Unhelpfully, his brain chose that moment to provide him with a list of odorless, tasteless, colourless poisons and their various symptoms—

"It's coffee, Gabe." Gabriel looked up, afraid he'd voiced the thought aloud, but Mudd simply rolled his eyes. "And if you don't want it, I certainly do."

The scent of the coffee permeated through the heavy fug in Gabriel’s head, reassuringly - real. 

Bracing himself, Gabriel took a cautious sip.

“Oh, that’s good,” he murmured, with an involuntary sigh.

“It ought to be. Cost me enough.”

Fortified by the coffee, Gabriel forced himself to meet Mudd’s gaze.

“Did I - hurt you?”

“Eh. I’ve had worse.” Mudd's tone was gruff. “From you, as a matter of fact.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. 

"What was - I like?" he asked quietly. "When we met?"

"A _karskat_ of truly astonishing proportions. Pardon my Andorii."

From his vantage point across the room, Mudd folded his arms and scrutinised Gabriel. 

"What did you remember, exactly?" he asked. 

Gabriel stared down at the hopefully-not-poisoned mug in his hands.

"I'm not sure, yet," he said. He swirled the liquid around a few times, watching the reflection of the light overhead flickering on its surface. 

He knew how his friends had died. He knew that there had been a cover up. But he didn't have a single _why_. 

Above him, the light sputtered into a steady glow.

Gabriel looked up.

"How did we meet?"

"You simply will not let this drop, will you?" Mudd asked. When Gabriel didn't answer, he let out a plaintive sigh. "Well, it was nice while it lasted, I suppose."

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I was _just_ starting to like this new you. The second those floodgates open and you start remembering everything again, the other guy will be back, and then it's all over."

The blow was accidental, but it stung nonetheless. 

Gabriel swallowed.

"Try me," he said quietly.

Mudd made a tragic noise, one rendered all the more theatrical by the rippling of the frills on his shirt.

"Oh, very well. When first we met, Gabe, you and I were being detained at the High Chancellor's pleasure."

"We were in jail?" Gabriel translated. That would explain why there were no records of the Other him from that time. "Why?"

"In my case, for the simple crime of being a human in Klingon space—"

"And in mine?" Gabriel rubbed tired little circles into his temple, only too happy to sidestep the many ways in which Mudd had no doubt managed to annoy the Klingons.

"Well, a Starfleet captain always fetches a good bounty. Especially one with a ship like yours."

"The _Buran?_ " Gabriel frowned. He would never have stood for any of his crew saying so, but the _Buran_ was hardly the jewel in Starfleet's crown. "But she was already - lost."

Mudd blinked at him.

"You don't remember?" 

"Remember _what?_ "

" _Discovery_."

"The hell’s that _?_ "

"You really don't remember," Mudd breathed.

_"Harry."_

“Patience, Gabriel, I'll get there. But I thought for sure you'd … alright. There are two things you should know - two things you should _remember._ The first is that, for a brief and shining time, _Discovery_ was the darling of the 'Fleet."

Unbidden, a tiny shiver pricked up the back of Gabriel’s neck.

"So?"

"She was your ship.”

Through the half-open door, the dripping of the bathroom tap was a metronome in the silence. Gabriel placed his mug on the floor, to give himself a chance to compose himself as much as anything else. 

“I don’t understand,” he said at last, slow and deliberate, like that could somehow stem the flow of the dread that was pooling in his stomach.

“You were the _captain,_ genius.”

“No.”

Gabriel stood abruptly, needing - something to do, needing to put as much distance as he could between himself and Mudd's words. 

“No. _No_ ,” he snapped, pacing up and down. “There was no other ship after— they _promised_ me—”

“Well, the last time I was on board _Discovery,_ someone who looked an awful lot like a much younger, far less hirsute you was stamping around acting the big cheese.” 

Gabriel reached the far wall of the room, turned, paced back to the other side, turned, paced back—

"What's the big deal?" Mudd shrugged. "You got another ship. So what? When we met, you were pleased as punch about it.”

Fighting down a wave of nausea, Gabriel closed his eyes and breathed in as deeply as the busted air filter let him.

That - bastard. He’d murdered Gabriel’s crew, and then he’d just - sauntered on to another ship. They'd _given him_ a new ship, after everything he’d done, and he'd crowed about it, like it was something to be proud of—

"Sit down, will you? You're making me dizzy."

Gabriel sank back down onto the bed and ran a trembling hand over his beard.

“What’s the second thing?” he asked, when he could be certain that his voice wouldn’t shake. "That was the first thing. What's the second?"

“The second thing,” Mudd said, “is that she doesn’t exist.”

Gabriel stared at him.

"You mean she's classified," he said slowly. 

"I mean _she doesn't exist_. One minute she's there, and the next…?" Mudd spread his hands, simulating an explosion. "It was like she'd never even been built."

"That's … absurd," Gabriel managed. "You can't just - make a whole ship disappear."

"Why not? They made _you_ disappear."

"They?"

"Starfleet," Mudd sighed, as if it were painfully obvious. 

Gabriel's stomach flipped. 

“I don’t believe you,” he said, hoarse.

“What possible reason would I have for lying to you about _that_ , Gabe?”

“Prove it." It was a lifeline, however frayed and brittle it might be. If Mudd couldn't prove it, it could still be just another of his tricks, it could still be a lie, it could still be a mistake. The hope of it twisted like a knife in his chest.

“You want me to prove that a ship that doesn’t exist existed?” Mudd cocked an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that one up with your chums in the yellow jackets. Once upon a time, in a happier, more simple age, when business was flourishing and ships didn’t disappear into thin air, I could have furnished you with schematics, access codes ... but, alas, all of that was seized along with the rest of my worldly possessions when—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Gabriel interrupted, before Mudd could launch into what was no doubt another tale of woe. “Why would you have any of that?”

“Because, Gabe, I tried to _steal Discovery_. Technically, I did steal her on, er, several occasions … is none of this ringing any bells?” Gabriel shook his head, vaguely. “Really? Huh. Interesting.”

Gabriel wasn’t really listening. Something was worrying at him, irritating him like a loose tooth, or a splinter stuck just beneath his skin. 

The catastrophic loss of a ship, an explosion like Chris had described - that kind of thing didn’t go unreported. Gabriel knew that all too well. But he’d been through all this; when he’d first got back, he’d scoured news reports and ‘Fleet records from around that time for anything he could find, and - alright, his memory might not have been what it once was, but he’d have _noticed_ something like _that_.

The thought needled at him.

“When did _Discovery_ \- disappear?” he asked. On some faint level, he was surprised by how calm he sounded. 

“You have to bear in mind that I was - now, how should I put this? - otherwise engaged at the time. ‘Engaged’ being the operative word—”

 _“Harry,”_ Gabriel groaned, screwing his eyes shut. _“When?”_

“Alright, alright - if I had to hazard a guess - 2257?”

There it was. He’d known almost as soon as the question had formed on his tongue. 

Philippa standing in a dark cabin, on a ship with no crew manifest, no mission, no name—

“Don't let your coffee go cold," Mudd was saying.

It all came back to the gaps. The gaps in his records. In Pippa's. In Kat's. He hadn’t known what was missing before, hadn’t been able to see a pattern in the empty spaces, couldn't work out the shape of it. He’d been so busy trying to make sense of what _was_ there in those files, that he hadn’t noticed what wasn’t. But it was obvious, now. 

It was a ship. A ship that had been - his. A ship that didn't exist. A ship that Mudd had tried to steal. A ship that Pippa had died on. A ship that Starfleet had made disappear. 

A ship that was a ghost, just like him. 

Starfleet hadn’t said that the Other him had never set foot on another ship after the _Buran_. They’d told him that there was no _record_ of the Other him on another ship, and Gabriel had built the rest of the story for himself, heard exactly what they’d wanted him to hear. He’d heard what _he_ wanted to hear. 

Gabriel stared blankly into the space ahead of him, and barely noticed his mug being pressed back into his hands. 

Someone had sent him to Mudd because of this ship, this - _Discovery_. He was convinced of that now, even if he couldn’t articulate why. This was what they’d wanted him to find out. He could feel it in his gut, as clear as anything he’d ever felt when making a decision on the bridge of the _Buran_ , as real as the mug in his hand. It was the key to everything - everything that had happened to Pippa, to Kat, all the answers he’d been looking for. 

And Gabriel had absolutely no idea what it all meant.

He wasn’t smart enough for this. For any of it. He’d always had a team, before. Now, it was just him, and he wasn’t _enough_ , not by himself. Not alone.

He scrubbed at his forehead, suddenly weary all over again. 

"You've still got that headache?" Mudd asked, watching him.

"It's like it's following me around," Gabriel quipped, but his heart wasn't really in it.

The only response was a _tut_ from Mudd, who rummaged in his bag again, this time producing a small, rectangular case.

"You … bought a medkit," Gabriel said, watching open-mouthed as Mudd clipped a vial into a hypospray. “You actually remembered to buy a medkit?”

"I said I would, didn't I? And I’m a man of m’word. Here." 

Pressing it to his neck, Gabriel released the trigger, and felt almost immediately better as the medicine took hold.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"What are friends for?" 

Gabriel sighed and closed his eyes, hands wrapped around the mug, breathing deep as the throbbing in his skull finally began to recede.

"How do you make a whole ship disappear?" he asked quietly. 

"It's just like I told you. Space is big and memory is short."

Gabriel shook his head. Making him disappear had been different. Everyone who might have cared was already dead, or hated him, or had been alienated by the Other him. Making _him_ disappear - that had been _easy._ But a whole ship ... there would have been families. Friends. People they slept with when they were dirtside. Bartenders who knew their favourite drinks. People who would have noticed. People who would have cared. _Hundreds_ of people who would have cared.

"Can't be done," he muttered. "It's too big."

Mudd shrugged. 

“Maybe there’s a fuss at first. But you make the penalty for asking high enough, you deny things loudly enough, you suppress things for long enough, and people … move on. They forget.”

"Not everyone," Gabriel insisted. 

"People, Gabe, will always disappoint you."

Just for once, Gabriel was inclined to agree with him.

He really was feeling better. He hadn't realised how bad his headache had been until it had gone away. Now, he felt - calm, for the first time in days. Floaty, even. 

Gabriel straightened up slowly. 

'How' wasn't the right question. 

" _Why_ do you make a whole ship disappear?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, whydjou mayka hull shup disupp—" 

Gabriel frowned. The words didn't sound right. Nothing sounded right. Everything was all - stretched out and squashed all at the same time, like the space around him was concertinaing.

Foggy realisation dawning, he stared - tried to stare, anyway - at the mug in his hands.

"Th’hellsin thisc'ffee?" he slurred.

“Coffee,” Mudd replied with a sniff. “Really _good_ coffee that I was really looking forward to. It was the _hypospray_ that had the sedative in it.”

Gabriel grunted with the effort of trying to get at least some of his limbs to respond.

“But - why?” he managed, unsure which of the blurry double Mudds in his vision he was supposed to be focussing on.

"Sorry, Gabe. It's just business."

The mug slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor.

"Hadda _deal_." 

Mudd shrugged, and when he replied, it was like his voice was coming from a long way away.

"I got a better offer."


	9. Chapter 9

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED 2269.12.23.03:54<< _

_TO: Kirk, Jimbo McDimbo_

_FROM: Anonymous User_

_SECURITY: ENCRYPTED_

_Dear Harcourt,_

_I have followed your career with interest for some time and was saddened to hear of your current predicament._

_Enclosed are the coordinates of a place far away from the prying eyes of your detractors, where an enterprising businessman such as yourself could make a fresh start._

_Sincerely,_

_A Friend_

*****

**_Unknown Location, 2270_ **

Gabriel awoke, groggy, with a mouth that tasted like a targ's backside. 

What—? 

Right. That son of a bitch.

His next question, _where,_ was easy enough to solve. The thrum of engines through the cold floor beneath him and the rattling in the bulkheads were only too recognisable after a week stuck on the shuttle. 

He half-opened one sticky eye and risked a look around. The shiny top of Mudd's head could just be seen over the back of the helm chair.

Mudd hadn't handed him over to - whoever was buying, then. Not yet. Good. Gabriel wanted to pull his stupid moustache clean off his double-crossing face first.

His wrists were bound with some sort of sticky, fibrous, lacy stuff. Careful not to make a sound, he tried to work his hands loose, but it was wound so tightly that it refused to give.

Very Best Forever-Stick Wing Mesh. It really was good.

His legs were free, though. 

_Not as smart as you think you are, Mudd._

You didn't survive for as long as Gabriel had There without learning to fight with your hands tied—

He tried to stand, which turned out to be a mistake. 

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty!" Mudd called over his shoulder, as Gabriel exclaimed at the pain that exploded in his skull.

He was getting far too old for this.

"Mudd, I swear, I'm gonna … I’ll…" The bright lights dancing in front of Gabriel’s vision were too much, and he trailed off, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to dissipate them.

"I'm sure you will, Gabe" Mudd said encouragingly.

Exhausted by the effort, Gabriel leaned back against the bulkhead, despondent.

“I’m guessing you won’t tell me where you’re taking me?” he asked at last.

Mudd turned to waggle a disapproving finger at him.

“Now, now. If previous experience with you has taught me anything, it’s to never reveal key elements of my brilliant plans, no matter how close I think I am to outwitting you. It’s a shame, really. I’d enjoy the chance to gloat.” He turned to the helm, then spun back around in his seat. “Do you know what? I think I _will_ have a gloat after all. I’ve _earned_ this." He stretched out luxuriantly and sighed, apparently satisfied. “The sweet smell of success.”

“Smells like the environmental controls are bust to me.”

“Always so _negative_.”

Gabriel shook his head, trying to clear some of the fog that had settled there.

"Can I get some water?" he croaked.

Mudd frowned, tapping his thumbnail against his teeth.

"If you try anything…" he said at last.

Scowling, Gabriel held up his bound wrists and spread his hands as wide as the Wing Mesh would allow.

"Really?"

"Alright, alright…"

While Mudd clattered around in the tiny aft cabin they had set up as mess room - Mudd had taken the term somewhat too literally - Gabriel took the opportunity to scope his surroundings. The tools that he had chastised Mudd about were still unstowed, still scattered around the shuttle. A spanner lay barely a couple of strides away, where it had been kicked beneath the seats opposite. Maybe he could—

Everything lurched to starboard, and it took Gabriel a long moment to work out that this wasn't because of Mudd's flying, for a change. It was just that his head was spinning.

Alright. Point taken. A dramatic escape was probably out of the question for now. Which meant he was on to plan B: stall for time. And then … something. 

He'd figure it out. Probably.

Gabriel was still trying to swallow down his nausea as footsteps heralded the arrival of the water. When he opened his eyes, they were level with Mudd's knees.

"I'm not going to have to … feed you, am I?" Mudd's nose wrinkled as he looked down on him.

"Not a prospect I relish either. Just - give it here."

Mudd hesitated, apparently still unconvinced that Gabriel wasn't going to attack. There really wasn't any need to worry. The worst that Gabriel was capable of right now was throwing up on Mudd's shoes, and while that would be inconvenient it wasn't exactly going to get him out of this situation. 

At last, Mudd crouched to hand over the glass. Gabriel managed, just, to get an awkward grip around it. He slopped a good amount over himself before he got the hang of it, but the half-glass or so he successfully conveyed to his mouth tasted like heaven.

With dehydration staved off for at least a little while longer, he closed his eyes again and rested the back of his head against the cool metal of the bulkhead.

“If you won’t tell me where, will you at least tell me _why?”_ he murmured. 

Mudd snorted.

“Aside from the fact that once I hand you over, I shall be rich beyond even _my_ wildest dreams?”

“I’m touched that you managed to get such a good price for me, but no, that’s not what I meant. Why’d you do it? I thought you liked me.”

“I _do_ like you. But I like being rich enough to buy an entire planet complete with moons and still have change to spare even more.”

There was only one more card left to play in Gabriel’s hand. Problem was, he had no idea whether it was an ace or a joker.

“I know you killed me. Tried to kill me,” he said. “I - remembered that. But what I don’t know is why. You’ve won anyway, Harry. How about you tell me what this is all really about?”

“I didn’t _try_ to kill you, Gabe. I _did_ kill you. Fifty six glorious times.”

Gabriel’s head was pounding, but he was pretty sure that sentence wouldn’t have made any more sense even if all his faculties were firing on full capacity.

“I’m … gonna need more context,” he said, tired.

“Time crystals - look, it’s really not that important. What _is_ important is that I bested you fifty six times and now, at long last, I get to make it fifty seven.” Mudd twirled his moustache. “You know, for a long time my greatest regret was that I didn’t finish you off when I had the chance, but now I’m starting to think there was some cosmic plan behind it all.”

“So how the hell did he die?” Gabriel blurted out. 

Mudd frowned at him.

“Maybe I gave you too much of that stuff,” he muttered, folding his arms. “Oh well. It’s not as if they’re buying you for your conversational skills.”

Gabriel breathed out. He might be able to pass one odd outburst off as drug-induced rambling, but he couldn't risk another.

He shifted position, careful to make it look like he was stretching out his shoulders. Now he could keep both Mudd and the spanner in his line of sight at the same time. 

"I must have done something to deserve being killed fifty six times," he said at last. "What was it?"

Mudd sighed.

“You know what’s really galling, Gabe? You sit there all mild-mannered and meek and - _likeable,_ but none of it’s real. You _still_ have no idea. You ruined my life, and you don’t even _remember_.”

“So refresh my memory.” Gabriel wasn’t feeling at all inclined to sympathy right now, but the longer he kept Mudd talking, the longer he had to try and figure a way out of this. 

“I was a respected businessman when our paths crossed—”

“You’ll allow me a little healthy scepticism on that point.”

“— _a respected businessman,_ and then you - _happened_ and nothing was ever the same. You left me to rot in that cell while you saved your own skin.”

“Yeah, that sounds like me,” Gabriel muttered bitterly. 

“You see? You don’t even deny it! You left me for dead, and then you tricked me, and _then,”_ \- Mudd always did enjoy a dramatic pause, and it wasn’t as though Gabriel had any other alternative than to wait patiently for the end of his sentence, quite literally a captive audience - “You _called my fiancée.”_

Gabriel blinked. 

There were plenty more important things to worry about, but he couldn't think of any right this second.

“You’re ... married?” 

_“Thanks to you.”_

Trying and failing to wrap his sluggish brain around this revelation, Gabriel shelved it with all the other questions that would have to keep for another day. Preferably one when he wasn’t mid-abduction. 

He attempted to wiggle some feeling back into his fingers, without a great deal of success.

“Look. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I abandoned you, I really am. I’d be angry too. And I’m sorry that I - reunited you with your partner? But drugging and kidnapping me seems a little steep.”

"Steep? _Steep?_ I wasn't even free of your shadow after _Discovery_ disappeared! Starfleet hounded me to the edges of the galaxy, sending that blasted Kirk to thwart me at every turn, or - worse! - being hounded by those creepy secret messages. It's enough to drive a man to distraction. And then, just to add insult to injury, you come out of the woodwork to lose me all my money all over again—"

"Wait." Gabriel's brain caught up with his ears, and he dragged himself into a more upright position. "What secret messages?"

Mudd shrugged.

"Weird codes. Cryptic rubbish." 

_In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd…_

"About what?" Gabriel insisted.

"They wanted to know what I knew about that damned ship, of course. Followed me everywhere. I got a tip-off about this backwater little colony no one had ever heard of. Somewhere no one would ever think to look for me. So I headed there, junked my old shuttle - I was convinced I'd lost them for good and then _you_ showed up. I thought for sure they'd sent you to—" Mudd mimed firing a phaser.

"Who are 'they'?" 

"How should I know? Black Ops, most likely. Isn't that what you were? You're probably some sort of sleeper agent, and I don't want to be around when you remember whatever it is that wakes you up."

If it wasn't for the sedative still slowing him down, Gabriel would have said that he had already woken up. 

"Mudd, this is important. These messages. Did you ever get a good look at who was sending them?"

"If someone is chasing me for something I'm not supposed to have, I generally make it my business to be as far away from them as possible."

Which was exactly what Mudd would do the second the deal was complete. Disappear, along with everything he knew.

Being sold to a bounty hunter wasn't exactly an ideal turn of events, but being sold to a bounty hunter _and_ letting Mudd get away was a prospect that Gabriel couldn't allow.

Starlight glinted off the spanner.

He cycled quickly through plans C, D and E, and came all the way back around to plan A. 

Dramatic escape.

Gabriel lunged.

Gabriel's legs weren't ready.

Gabriel completely misjudged the distance.

He landed heavily on his stomach, winded, and watched helplessly as Mudd picked up the spanner.

"Really, Gabe?" Mudd hefted it in his hand a few times, shaking his head. "I'm disappointed. I so hoped we could be grown up about all this."

The spanner landed with a _clang_ and skittled to rest somewhere aft, far out of Gabriel's reach.

"You think whoever’s chasing you will just drop this once I'm gone? Leave you alone?" he tried, desperate, rolling onto his side and scrabbling back. "Suddenly becoming the richest man in the quadrant will only draw even more attention to you—"

"Trying to cut another deal? Save your breath." Mudd reached for the little case he had stowed in the nets above Gabriel and unclipped it slowly. "There's a certain level of rich that lifts you beyond all scrutiny. I am about to enter those hallowed ranks and you, dear Gabriel, have proved that you are simply more trouble than you're worth."

“No. No, not again—”

But Gabriel’s reaction times were still sluggish, and he couldn’t dodge the hypospray that was clamped against his neck, or do a single thing to stop everything sliding away into black again.

*

Stars, wheeling past a window, sickeningly fast—

Singing, loud and obnoxious—

A terrifying creature, half human, half machine, looming on the edge of Gabriel’s vision, all wires and tubes and - spoons for hands?

Stars. Stars. More stars—

*

Gabriel woke up, more or less, to another pounding headache and a blast of cold air like a slap in the face.

He was planetside. And it was _freezing._

It took him a few seconds to realise that the landscape, such as it was, a barren expanse of jagged, icy rocks, was moving, a few seconds more to realise that this was because _he_ was moving, and then another few more to realise in turn that _this_ was because he was being half-carried, half-shoved from behind. 

He gritted his teeth, marshalling all of his remaining faculties into breaking free of whatever it was that had him and, with a force of will that felt almost superhuman, managed something with roughly the same impact as a tired shrug against a mountain.

“Do you _ever_ stop?” an exasperated, familiar voice said.

The Fleet Admiral. The droid. Mudd. 

Gabriel had an expletive lined up, a really good one, one that was technically illegal in no less than seven Federation territories, but his tongue felt like it didn’t belong to him, so it just ended up coming out as a childish burble. 

“Eloquent as always. Let me do the talking, OK? Oh, wait. You don’t have any choice.” Mudd’s chuckle, translated through the droid’s voice-box, was even more grating than it would have been in person. 

A figure came into focus. A figure dressed all in black. The figure dressed all in black from Station Four. Of course. The one time Gabriel actually managed to convince himself he was overreacting _would_ be the time he got drugged and kidnapped and sold to a bounty hunter, wouldn’t it. Just his luck. 

A big upside to the sedative still sloshing about in Gabriel’s system was that he felt weirdly, eerily calm about all of this. 

Up close, the figure wasn’t anything like as tall or solidly built as their cloak had made them look back on the station. Just - well tailored. Then again, out of the two sentients present, they were the one who wasn’t doped up and being dragged around by an android, so they had that going in their favour. 

"Special delivery!" Mudd chimed, drawing the Admiral to a halt.

They showed no signs of having heard him. For a moment, Gabriel thought they might be another bot, until—

_"You were supposed to bring him yourself."_

"Yes, well, he weighs a tonne. I didn't think you'd mind if I stretched the definition a little."

The figure began to circle Gabriel, inspecting their purchase.

_"You were not supposed to harm him."_

"He's fine!" Mudd insisted, and the droid jerked to wave Gabriel's bound hands at them clumsily. "See?"

Gabriel's arms flopped down heavily as soon as Mudd let go. 

Stepping back into Gabriel's line of sight, the figure gripped him by the chin and tilted his head up, scrutinising his face closely. Scanned him, maybe. It was impossible to tell, with that helmet. Gabriel was so cold that it was almost cartoonish, teeth chattering in spite of their hand on his jaw, shivering, breath billowing in plumes from his mouth and nose.

 _"He is drugged,"_ they remarked eventually, letting his head droop back again. They didn't sound impressed. 

"I gave him a _tiny little_ sedative to make him more agreeable, that's all," Mudd said dismissively. "You'll be thanking me when you don't have to put up with his endless complaining."

Gabriel hissed at the sharp tap of a gloved finger on his bruised nose.

 _"And injured,"_ the figure continued, as though Mudd hadn't spoken.

"An entirely unrelated accident. He was careless—"

_"Cease."_

Mudd, to his credit, knew when to shut up. 

The cold obviously didn’t bother them, Gabriel thought bitterly, as the figure appeared to weigh up their options. His own breath, meanwhile, was starting to freeze in his beard.

"I'm … still getting paid, right?" Mudd asked, hopefully.

Even through the featureless helmet, the full force of the glare that was unleashed on him was obvious. The figure rolled up their sleeve, and Gabriel felt Mudd flinch through the droid’s interface, before realising that they were simply tapping a command into a wrist-PADD. 

_"The funds have been transferred. The purchase is complete."_

There was a pause, during which - no doubt - back in the warmth of the shuttle, somewhere in orbit, Mudd checked the contents of his bank balance. Shivering, Gabriel wished they’d get it over with one way or another.

"A pleasure doing business with you," Mudd said at last, obsequiously, and Gabriel plummeted to the floor as the Admiral's arms abruptly released him.

The figure didn't rush to collect him. It didn't make any difference. Even if Gabriel had thought he stood a chance against the two of them, he could barely get his fingers to curl into a fist, let alone swing a punch, let alone stand up to make a punch worth swinging—

Using every ounce of his remaining willpower, Gabriel lifted his head and turned it far enough to look straight into the Admiral’s eyes.

"Bastard," he muttered.

"Right back atcha, Gabe," Mudd replied. He bent and patted Gabriel's shoulder, the droid’s hand heavy and awkward. "You know, I really will miss you. But we’ll always have Paris, right?"

_"Enough!"_

"I'm going, I'm going," Mudd grumbled. "He's all yours. Remember - all sales are final, no exchanges, no refunds!"

As the droid retreated, shrinking into the landscape until it was lost to Gabriel’s blurred vision, the figure hauled him up by the shoulder and steered him in the opposite direction.

There didn’t seem to be an awful lot of point in resisting, all things told. Now that the droid’s support was removed, Gabriel’s legs were doing their best to take him in two different directions at once, and neither of them the way he wanted to go. And in any case, between the drugs and the jelly legs and the rapidly approaching onset of hypothermia, an escape attempt would be unlikely to get him very far.

It wasn’t like he had anything to escape for, anyway. This had been his last shot at finding out the truth. The final roll of the dice. He had failed. Failed himself, failed Pippa and Kat. Failed.

His abductor didn’t seem to mind when he more or less slumped against them to remain something approaching upright, which was probably the least that they could do under the circumstances.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it took - probably only a few minutes, if that, though every second seemed to concertina out endlessly, every step a new and painful adventure in itself - but they finally reached a shuttle. Or rather, Gabriel _presumed_ that they reached a shuttle. His vision was now so blurred that it was almost impossible to tell what it was. It was only when he completely misjudged the clearance on the way in and bashed his head against the lip of the hatch that he _felt,_ beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they'd reached a shuttle.

“Ngh,” he complained to the universe in general.

 _“Watch your step,”_ the figure said belatedly.

“Nggghh,” Gabriel replied, with feeling.

The shuttle was warm, which was good. Unfortunately, that in turn meant that bits of Gabriel which had gone numb now started to register their disapproval about the whole situation, which was less good. 

At least he could probably say with some certainty that everything was still attached, and at this point Gabriel was willing to take any win he could get. He was vaguely worried that things might not remain attached when a knife was produced, until he became aware, via the uncomfortable medium of sensation returning to his fingertips, of the restraints on his wrists being cut away. 

Shortly after that - maybe a long time after that? He couldn't really tell. _Some time_ after that - he was helped down onto something soft. A fold-out bunk. One that didn't feel like it had been hewn out of rock. 

Bliss.

He realised, on some deep-down, monkey-brain, feral, fight-or-flight level, that he should probably be more worried about the fact that he had just been sold to a bounty hunter with as yet unclear intentions, but the truth was that he was just too tired to care. And in his experience, people didn't usually bother untying you, or giving you a pillow and tucking you in, if they planned on murdering you horribly. 

At least, not if they planned on murdering you horribly straight away.

That was a reassuring thought.

His captor, whoever they were, had removed their helmet. 

"Are you alright?" they asked, their voice - their real voice, he understood now, realising that it had been masked before - drifting across to him as if through a fog.

Gabriel mumbled something grumpy and incoherent in reply, fighting the urge to let his eyes close.

"I'll take that as a 'maybe'." They leaned over him and adjusted the blanket they'd wrapped around him. "Just - rest, for now."

Gabriel tried to focus on the blurry shape of them, training and instincts and monkey-brain coming together to not so much scream as whinge insistently at him to _pay attention_ to what was going on, to gather all the intelligence he could to get himself out of this situation. 

His head hurt.

 _Concentrate_. Human female? Long dark hair. In charge.

"... Kat?" he asked, so very tired. 

“You’re safe,” was all the blur said. And as sleep finally overtook him, Gabriel almost believed them.

*

“Ah. You’re awake.”

Gabriel’s headache, and the avalanche of memories it unleashed, made him wish that he wasn’t.

It was clearly going to be that kind of week.

“Apparently so,” he groaned.

He blinked, trying to piece together what was going on.

The first thing that occurred to him, as he rubbed his eyes, still sticky with sleep, was that he didn’t appear to be restrained. That was a promising start. There was no forcefield surrounding him, either, nothing at all stopping him from getting up, unless you counted the blanket he'd become tangled in and what felt like the universe's worst hangover.

That might be a good sign. Or it might just mean that they had some other, worse way of ensuring his compliance. 

Whoever this was, their operation was far more slick than Mudd's. His shuttle had rattled and creaked; the engines on this one were so silent and so smooth that Gabriel had to strain his hearing before he was even certain that they were moving.

Gabriel cricked his neck to try and get a better look around, for all the good it did him. The lights in the main cabin had been dimmed to the softest of glows. But at the fore, the shuttle's helm controls were blazing bright. And there, silhouetted by the viewscreen, sat the bounty hunter.

“Are you aware that you snore?” they asked, without looking up.

“Sorry if I bothered you,” he said sardonically, experimenting with the concept of sitting up. “That’s the risk you run when you kidnap someone, I guess. Might just land yourself a snorer.”

The figure at the helm turned at that, one arm slung over the back of their seat.

“This isn’t a kidnap,” they informed him. 

“No?” Gabriel grunted. Upright position successfully achieved, he progressed to swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. Someone had thought to remove his boots and place them neatly to one side. He was pretty sure it wasn't him. “’Cause I don’t remember agreeing to this ride.” 

"I will admit that things progressed rather more … forcefully than I had anticipated."

"You're telling me," Gabriel muttered, tugging his boots back on. Whatever kind of trouble he was in, he didn't like the idea of facing it in only his socks.

He tried to feel as surreptitiously as he could for the data card while he did so.

"It's still there." They sounded amused. "I would recommend putting it in your pocket, though. I can't imagine that's particularly comfortable."

Well. There didn't seem to be much use in hiding it now. And they did have a point.

"How'd you know?" he asked, placing it carefully in the inner pocket of his jacket, safe.

"I looked," they replied simply, and Gabriel flushed. "But, to be frank - there's not much I don't know about you, Captain Lorca."

 _Captain_ Lorca. That made him pay attention.

Gabriel squinted at his not-kidnapper. Backlit as they were by the bright light of the viewscreen, it was hard to make out their features, and the fragments of his memories from the night before - day before? How long had he been out? - didn't give him much more to go on.

"You with Justice for the _Buran?"_ he asked warily. "Didn't think you guys went in for violent protest—"

"No. No, I'm not." They tilted their head, scrutinising him. "You don't remember me?"

"I had an accident," Gabriel intoned, almost bored of the well-worn lie himself, even as he braced for whatever he was about to find out. "Amnesia. Lost a lot of the last few years—"

"No, I mean - you _really_ don't remember me?"

Gabriel hesitated. Did they mean—

"I - I don't—"

"Computer, lights."

They stood up and moved closer, and as the light rose across their face, Gabriel could finally make out intelligent, deep blue eyes. High cheekbones. A brow that seemed to be ready at a moment's notice to arch in a way that would make a Vulcan jealous. All in all, a face that he couldn’t quite place, but seemed - familiar, maybe, except for the single streak of white that ran through their otherwise dark hair.

"Well, I had hoped that I'd made more of an impression on you, but in that case... " Gabriel caught the glitter of light reflected in their painted nails as they held out a hand for him to shake. Firm grip. "It's good to meet you again, Captain Lorca. You can call me Una."


	10. Chapter 10

_… reports that a ‘small number’ of Starfleet vessels were affected by the subspace hack were today confirmed by officials, who say they are taking the attack ‘very seriously’._

_The ten second video, widely regarded to be a hoax, appears to show an unidentified starship and the word ‘Remember’. It has already been circulated on social media networks Federation-wide, despite experts advising that it could contain malicious software._

_Starfleet has rolled out patches to onboard computers across all active ships, and all civilian households have been advised to update their security settings as soon as possible to prevent further attacks…_

_\- Federation News Network report, 2270_

* * *

**_Unknown Location, 2270_ **

"Una," Gabriel repeated, numb, his hand still clasped in hers. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember you."

"It's been a long time."

When had he last seen her? Memories swam to the surface, of a reception for - something. Someone. Some diplomat. Canapes and small talk. The _Buran_ dragged halfway across the quadrant to make a good impression. Gabriel had spent most of the evening counting down the seconds until he could retreat without looking rude, in between trying to prevent Jones and Landry from being too obvious in their minesweep of the buffet.

But Chris and Una - the room had practically orbited around them, guests hanging on their every word. A flagship crew in action.

The memories felt faded now, like characters in a holomovie he'd only half watched. 

Or like ghosts.

"Fifteen years, give or take," he managed, his mouth dry.

"Take, mostly, I suspect," Una said softly, and her eyes flickered to the scars on his hands. 

Gabriel pulled out of her grip as though it had burned him, the spell broken.

"Command will be very interested to hear about this breach of regulations," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. He might not have a rank anymore, and he might be hungover halfway to hell and wearing the same clothes as the day before, clothes which had technically not been clean even then, but he'd be damned if he'd let them get away with treating him like this.

“I’m sure they’d be very interested to hear who broke into the Fleet Admiral's office a few days ago, too,” Una replied, her voice calm, a fact which only served to make Gabriel want to dig his heels in even more. “Don't worry. I cleared up the elephant tracks you two left behind. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Give me one good reason not to hail Starfleet right now and have you court-martialled.”

Una sighed.

"Because I'm not Starfleet?" 

Looking around, Gabriel realised, too late, that there were no insignia visible anywhere on the shuttle. The screens weren't regulation. The seats, the bunks - everything had been built with an eye on comfort, not just utility. This was a civilian vessel. 

He hesitated, unsure whether or not this was bad news. 

"You're - not..?"

"Haven't been for some time now." Una considered Gabriel as he absorbed this. 

“Interesting career move,” he said, rallying. “Did you set out to become a kidnapper, or did you just fall into it?”

“Again, I must remind you that this is not a kidnap.”

"I'm not interested in semantics. You paid a conman a huge amount of money to drug me and—"

"The drugging was a miscalculation on my part, although I probably should have accounted for some underhand behaviour. I'm sorry about that. It's my first time dealing with criminals. I'll be sure to factor it in next time. But as for the money…" Una had an infuriating knack for making Gabriel feel like she was raising an eyebrow at him without actually changing her expression. "Do you follow the financial news, Captain?"

Gabriel ground his jaw, impatient for a straight answer. His thumping headache wasn’t exactly helping matters.

"Can't say I do."

"Neither does your friend."

"Definitely _not_ my friend."

"Had he done so," Una continued, as though he hadn't spoken, "he would be aware that the economy of Gardhak 5 is famously ... volatile. Just last night, in fact, the Keti depreciated to all-time lows."

Exasperated, Gabriel threw up his hands.  

"And?"

"I paid Mudd in Gardhakian Ketis." 

"So the money is..?"

"Effectively worthless, I'm afraid."

Gabriel scratched his chin while that sank in.

"Mudd wanted to buy a planet. With moons."

Una smiled to herself. 

"He might be able to afford a postcard. Something with a nice picture of a moon, perhaps. Assuming that he can find anywhere that will still accept the Keti."

The thought of Mudd discovering that his precious bounty had all but evaporated was one that would take prime position in Gabriel's happy place for some time to come.

“Alright," he said. "Let’s pretend for a minute that this isn’t a kidnap. What is it, then?”

“A conversation.”

“You go to these sort of lengths every time you want to have a chat?”

“Not every time. But when the topic is treason, it pays to be cautious.” 

In the pause that followed, Gabriel performed some rapid calculations, trying to work out where on the scale of ‘bad news’ to ‘disaster’ this particular revelation sat.

“You know,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I could have sworn you just said ‘treason’.”

“Technically treason. But yes.”

“Technically treason. Oh, well, that’s just fine. Why didn’t you say so? Before I sign up, I have just a few things I want to ask - let’s start with ‘what the hell is going on?’ and work from there, shall we?”

“A fair question,” Una conceded. "But first … when did you last eat?"

"Uh," Gabriel managed, wrongfooted first by the change of subject, and then even more when he realised that he didn't know. "What day is it?"

Una really did raise an eyebrow at that.

"There's a bathroom aft," she told him. "Freshen up, replicate whatever you need, then we'll eat. And - talk."

If this was a kidnap, it was certainly the most civilised kidnap that Gabriel had ever experienced.

A shower and a clean set of clothes went a long way to making him feel more human, although it did also mean that he came to the realisation that the unfortunate smell he'd noticed was him. 

Fresh socks were an almost religious experience. Gabriel wriggled his toes, rapt in wonder.

Brushing his teeth got rid of the weird metallic taste that Mudd's drugs had left. Figuring the universe probably owed him, he replicated the fanciest mouthwash in the ship's catalogue, and then, figuring that that probably didn't make up for things quite enough, he added a little moisturiser, some kind of treatment for his beard that smelled like rum, and a cologne that smelled worse than Gabriel had half an hour earlier, which went straight back into the recycler before he could accidentally spill any on himself. There was even a fully stocked medkit, complete with a dermal regenerator, which he dismantled fully and inspected a piece at a time before using. 

Una may have been civilised so far, but that didn't mean that he trusted her.

"So," he said, sitting down opposite her with a fixed nose and a steaming bowl of cholent a little while later. The shuttle's chronometer didn't concur with his body's sense of the time, but it was probably best to at least try to recalibrate. "You've been following me."

"To be precise, I've been _trying_ to follow you. You're an elusive man, Captain Lorca." Una’s own plate was piled high with fries and, as he watched, an alarming amount of hot sauce was deposited over them.

“Why?” Gabriel asked, tearing his eyes away. It felt like a reasonable question, under the circumstances.

“I’m part of a group. A network, if you like. And we think that our interests might - overlap with yours.”

“And what interests might those be?”

“The truth,” Una said simply. 

Gabriel scoffed.

“The truth. What kind of truth needs - all this?"

“Oh, all sorts of truths. The truth about a man who survived five years in a parallel universe and defied all odds to make it home, for instance.”

For a few moments, the only sound was the hum of the engines and the occasional _chirp_ of the autopilot. Over Una’s shoulder, beyond the viewscreen, stars stretched and streaked past as the shuttle continued on its course.

Starfleet had prepared Gabriel for this eventuality. That someone would confront him with the truth about the gaps in his record. But now that the moment was here, all of the carefully rehearsed lines had abandoned him.

“How could you possibly know that?” Gabriel’s throat felt tight, his script in tatters.

“Like I said. There’s not much I don’t know about you, Captain Lorca.” Una sat back and watched him, head tilted. “Your return ruffled quite a few feathers in certain circles. It - complicated things.”

“Coming back from the dead tends to do that,” Gabriel managed.

“I can only imagine,” Una said gently. “You don’t need to worry. Your secret is safe with me. But it is linked. This is all linked.” 

“All linked to _what—?”_ Gabriel started, but an alert from the computer distracted Una’s attention. 

“We’ll be landing soon,” she murmured, turning away to check her readings, grabbing a handful of fries for the journey as she went. “You should eat. You’ve had a trying few days.”

“You’re telling me,” Gabriel grumbled. 

Una busied herself at the conn. Apparently surplus to requirements, Gabriel stared at his bowl.

Seemed stupid to let it go cold. 

On the viewscreen, a planet grew steadily larger as they approached, deep orange and moonless and very familiar.

“Vulcan?” he asked, spoon paused in mid-air, his brow furrowing. 

“Vulcan.”

A short while later, strapped into the passenger seat, Gabriel found himself wondering whether eating such a big meal had been a good idea. He tensed involuntarily as the planet’s surface drew nearer. After a week of Mudd’s atrocious flying, he’d become conditioned to expect the worst. 

A jagged mountain range came into sharp and deadly focus and he gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white, but Una pulled away smoothly in a well-practiced manoeuvre, guiding the shuttle into a narrow channel between two huge boulders.

She had the decency to pretend that she hadn’t noticed his sigh of relief. 

Outside, wind raged, whipping up huge clouds of sand, and soon the surface of the shuttle was coated in a blanket of red camouflage. Una wrapped a scarf around her face, and held out another to Gabriel to do likewise.

“Wouldn’t want to get sand in your beard,” she quipped.  

From behind his scarf, Gabriel muttered under his breath, mutinous, and briefly considered another escape attempt while Una opened the shuttle hatch. 

Somewhere in the handful of seconds between the locks disengaging and a figurative wall of heat and an actual wall of sand hitting him, he abandoned the idea. 

First ice, now this. His week was shaping up just great. 

He resigned himself to trailing behind Una, both of them keeping their heads low, the sand stinging at them as they picked their way over the steep and uneven terrain. He was pretty sure it was getting under his scarf somehow, and had already worked its way into his boots in a matter of seconds.

In any case, even if he risked a lungful of sand and ran for it, there was nowhere to _go._ No settlements were visible for as far as Gabriel could see, which admittedly wasn’t all that far, and no one else seemed to be foolish enough to be out walking around in a damn sandstorm.

At last, the ground levelled out, Una slowed, and Gabriel looked up gingerly, blinking away sand and trying to work out where the hell they were.

A couple of weathered statues stood nearby, gazing out over the craggy landscape, heedless of the storm that blew around them. Looming over them, set into the stone of the mountains themselves, was an arched glass doorway, enclosed in vast, intricate carvings. There were no forcefields, no communication panels - everything here was centuries old. 

Una paused, one hand resting on the glass panels of the door, the other shielding her eyes against the sand and glare of the sun, and turned to face him. 

“Ready, Captain Lorca?” she asked, her voice faint in the wind.

 _No,_ Gabriel thought.

“Beats standing around out here,” he yelled back, instead. 

Inside, after the doors swung shut behind them, was quiet and cool, almost chill after the blazing desert heat. 

Gabriel tugged his scarf down and brushed sand from his shirt ineffectually, certain that he’d be finding the stuff for weeks, before following Una. The only sounds were their footsteps and the trickle of water dripping from the noses and chins of yet more ancient statues, whose faces were slowly becoming lost to time. As they passed a shallow pool, their movements were enough to disturb its surface and send it shimmering in the hazy sunlight that shone through the sand-flecked doors. 

The whole place was full of a stillness that Gabriel hadn’t felt in … maybe he hadn’t ever felt like this before. 

“What is this place?” he asked, keeping his voice low out of a sense of reverence he didn’t completely understand.

“A crypt. I’m reliably informed it dates back to the time of Surak.” 

OK. So, a little more than a few centuries old. 

They walked in silence a way further, through dark and roughly-hewn tunnels, until they reached an opening with a high-domed ceiling, lit by torches, where—

Gabriel stopped short. 

Two people he had never met before looked back from familiar faces.

Fifteen years, and Gabriel still hadn’t got used to this sensation. 

They - not them, their counterparts - had been both younger and somehow more worn when Gabriel had met them. These two had grey hair, hers coiled up into a tall, elaborate style from which a single curl at the front had escaped, his … just the same as it always had been. 

The versions of them that he’d known hadn’t lived long enough for their hair to turn grey.

Lot of ghosts around, today.

“Captain Lorca, meet my associates.” Gabriel realised just in time that Una was speaking, her voice reverberating around the crypt. “This is Amanda and Sarek.”

Gabriel managed a tight nod in their direction. Sarek merely considered him, impassive, his hands folded neatly in front of the intricate braiding on his robe. Amanda, however, strode forward, the pearly fabric of her dress iridescent in the flickering light, and Gabriel found himself allowing her to take his hand and press it briefly, but warmly, between hers.

“We are both so glad you’re here,” she informed him.

Gabriel stole a quick glance at Sarek, who still hadn’t moved. Personally, he thought that ‘glad’ was probably stretching the truth a little.

Then again, it was always hard to tell, with Vulcans.

“That’s … very kind of you,” he said slowly. “But I’m not all that clear exactly why I’m here. Una was a little - sketchy on the detail.”

“As she should have been.” Sarek’s voice rang out deep and clear in the chamber. “Starfleet have ears everywhere. But we can speak freely here.” He swept a hand towards the corridor from which they had entered. “The katra stones housed in this crypt prevent attempts to listen telepathically.”

“And my defences prevent attempts to listen any other way,” Una added. Gabriel blinked. He hadn’t even spotted those. He must have looked surprised, because she shrugged and said, “I’ve been keeping busy in my retirement.”

“Clearly,” Gabriel muttered.

“One cannot be too careful in these - uncertain times, Captain Lorca.”

Something about Sarek’s tone sent Gabriel back to what felt like months ago, now, to a dingy bar on Dj’reek, back through the whisky fog, to a message, to someone saying _his name_ —

_In uncertain times, the truth is clear as Mudd..._

“The fortune cookie was you,” he said flatly, and Sarek inclined his head.

“I did point out that it was a little cliche,” Una remarked. Gabriel was almost sure he’d imagined the glee in her voice. Almost.

“But my husband has something of a penchant for the dramatic,” Amanda agreed, with the slightest squeeze of Sarek’s arm.

Sarek looked about as deeply affronted as it was possible for a Vulcan to look; which was to say that one eyebrow twitched a fraction higher than the other and his lips pursed by approximately a nanometre.

“The method was clearly effective,” he said, equilibrium apparently restored after his egregious display of emotion. “Here we all are.”

“You could have just bought me a beer, you know.” Gabriel folded his arms. “Would have saved us all a whole lot of time.”

Una’s face went rigid, all of a sudden, save for a single muscle twitching in her cheek, and she kept her gaze fixed carefully on a point somewhere above Gabriel’s head. 

“The secrecy was warranted,” Amanda said hastily, before Gabriel could cause an all-out diplomatic crisis. “The things we wanted you to know couldn’t be discussed in public, or over standard communications.”

Gabriel decided to gamble.

“Things ... like a ship that doesn’t exist?” 

The Vulcans who had built this place all those centuries ago could never have imagined the smile that broke out across Amanda’s face in that moment.

“You found _Discovery_ ,” she said. “I knew you would.”

“I really don’t know what I found,” Gabriel replied. “I was _trying_ to find out what happened to my friends, but I seem to have stumbled into some - conspiracy theory.”

“You found exactly what we wanted you to find, Captain."

"You went a little off-piste for a while, but you got there,” Una added.

Gabriel looked between the three of them, but found no answers in their expressions. This was just about the toughest hand of poker he’d ever played. 

“I … could really use some explanations right about now,” he sighed.

“And you’ll have them. I promise. Please. Sit.”

He followed the line of Amanda’s gesture to where a simple, low, square table, with a rudimentary seat at each corner, had been cut into the natural rock of the chamber. On the table, an immaculate Vulcan glass tea set waited to be poured. 

Gabriel probably would have felt surprised, if he hadn't already used up his surprise quota for the entire year several days ago. As it was, he just about managed a sort of shrugging acceptance of the fact. Vulcan high tea in an ancient crypt. Why not.

He decided not to ask how they’d managed to get the set through that storm. Neither of them had even a speck of sand on them, come to think of it. He’d learned a long time ago to let the Vulcans have their little mysteries.

Sarek poured the tea, handing them each a glass in turn. Gabriel found it hard to imagine the person he’d known performing such a gentle, domestic task. But as Sarek passed a glass to Amanda, reverentially, almost, their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second. 

Absolutely shameless displays of affection, it seemed, were a constant across all universes as far as this pair were concerned. 

“You wanted to learn the truth about your friends. But to do that, to understand any of this, you need _Discovery._ ” Una rested her elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “She’s no conspiracy theory. Discovery is as real as you and me. I’ve stood on the bridge, eaten in the mess hall. I was friends with her crew.” Her jaw was set. “And I helped Starfleet to erase them from history.”

“I - don’t understand,” said Gabriel, slowly.

"We’ll start at the beginning. What do you know already?" Amanda asked. She’d been a teacher here, he remembered vaguely. He wondered whether she’d treated all her students this kindly, or just the ones that she thought needed remedial classes.

"I know _Discovery_ was - some kind of a flagship. I know … that a man called Gabriel Lorca was her captain. I know that Mudd tried to steal her. I know she was destroyed in battle in 2257. I know the _Enterprise_ was involved, somehow." Gabriel locked eyes with Una. "And I know that since then, all record of her has been erased. But that's about it."

"Not bad." Una met his gaze steadily, unblinking. "You got further than most. But that's still a few years we need to catch you up on." 

“‘Not bad’,” Gabriel repeated. “Well, that’s a hell of a review. Think I’ll put that one on my résumé. ‘Not bad’.”

If Una noted his sarcasm, she ignored it. Instead, she placed a small holographic projector in the centre of the table with a smart _click_. 

"Fortunately, you've come to the right place. We formed the Network to keep the memory of _Discovery_ alive. To - help people remember." 

Gabriel hadn’t really paid attention to the news channel he’d watched, back in the horrible motel on Station Four. He’d been more worried about making sure that his mugshot wasn’t splashed all over breaking news. But now something nagged at him, somewhere in the back of his mind, and he frowned, trying to work out what it was. 

“Using subspace hacks?” he tried. He couldn’t imagine a trio less likely to be organising targeted attacks on Starfleet computers. 

Not in this universe, at least. 

“Could be,” Una said, noncommittally. “If I had a team of operatives working on clandestine transference of information, though, I’d be using all sorts of methods. But then, that’s just me.” 

“There are more of you?”

“The Network is vast,” Sarek said sagely. 

Penchant for the dramatic. Yeah, that was about right.

“And growing all the time,” Amanda added. 

“Turns out it’s not hard to find people who object to the idea of the systematic erasure of an entire crew of people.” Una sipped her tea. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Should you be telling me all this?” Gabriel asked. “It doesn’t seem very - secret of you.”

“I think we know enough about each other to ensure our mutual silence, don’t you?” Una replied mildly.

Gabriel glowered, the promise of answers only just keeping him holding his tongue.

“We’d been trying to find you for some time,” Amanda said, breaking the frosty silence. “But even Sarek’s diplomatic clearance didn’t help.”

“Mudd said I was like a ghost,” Gabriel murmured.

“Starfleet certainly did a good job of hiding you,” Una agreed. “When we finally tracked you down, we spotted an opportunity. Mudd had resisted our previous attempts at communication, but he could be useful to us in other ways. We knew that he would be looking for somewhere to lie low after his jail break—”

“So you told him to go to Dj’reek,” Gabriel said, to prove he was keeping up with all this as much as anything else. “And then you sent me a soggy fortune cookie slip.”

“The slip was dry. The bar, however, was not. The hygiene of the establishment is irrelevant,” Sarek said in response to Amanda’s quizzical look.

“We sent you that message because we wanted you to find Mudd, which you did. We wanted him to mistake you for your - counterpart, which _he_ did. So far, so good. But what was _supposed_ to happen next was that he'd let slip about _Discovery_ , and then the breadcrumb trail would lead you safely to us. Like I said…" Una spread her hands. "Off-piste."

"But you're here now," Amanda said encouragingly. Gabriel managed a weak smile in reply. 

"And you only _nearly_ signed up for a lifetime of piracy along the way," Una added.

“Already got the beard. Figured I’d make it official,” Gabriel deadpanned, trying to claw back at least an atom of his dignity. 

“I’m afraid we can’t offer you a stuffed parrot for your shoulder. However…” Una tapped the projector. Gabriel had almost forgotten about it entirely. It hummed softly, its cover irising outwards as it started up, bathing them all in a spectral blue light. “Perhaps we can make it up to you.”

“Parrot?” Gabriel heard Sarek ask Amanda in an undertone.

“Also irrelevant, husband.” 

If Sarek hadn’t been Vulcan, Gabriel felt sure he would have sighed at that point.

He leaned forward and stared at the glowing lines of the schematics as the projection rotated lazily between them, tracing his eyes along the needle-like length of her nacelle pylons and back to that strange configuration of her double saucer section.

"That's her? _Discovery?"_

"That's her."

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Some new sort of weapons array, possibly, the kind of thing that would make his counterpart feel right at home, something that would have made it worth stealing to a guy like Mudd. But _Discovery_ wasn't built like a warship. She was a science vessel. A sleek science vessel, sure, her design putting Gabriel in mind of an arrow heading toward a target, but a science vessel nonetheless. There was nothing that he could pick out that warranted all this secrecy.

He shrugged.

"Just a ship."

Una's expression was neutral, the carefully managed mask of someone who had learned over the course of a long and illustrious career that there were more effective ways to tell starship captains that they were idiots than stating it outright.

"A little more context, perhaps," she said evenly. 

As Gabriel watched, the outer ring of the saucer section began to spin.

“Tell me, Captain," Una continued. "Have you ever heard of something called the displacement-activated spore hub? The spore drive?”

_“The what?”_

_Gabriel sighed, relieved._

_“I thought not. I looked everywhere when I got back. Nothing. Maybe that’s for the best.” He caught Tyler’s expression and shook his head. “I’m telling this all wrong. There was a Terran scientist in the Imperial palace. Stamets. Paul Stamets. I tried to find him here, but I guess not everyone has a - an alternate.”_

_Tyler had been officiously tapping notes on his PADD, but as Gabriel spoke, he began to go very still._

_“Stamets’s research was - fringe. Astromycology. Space mushrooms,” Gabriel added, in case Tyler’s frown was one of incomprehension, though it didn’t seem to help much. “In particular, the spores of one strain; prototaxites stellaviatori. The Terrans had been using the energy from these spores to power the Imperial flagship. But Stamets had also posited a microscopic web spanning the entire cosmos. An intergalactic ecosystem. An infinite number of roads leading everywhere.”_

_That had been the key word, for Gabriel._ Everywhere _._

_Across the briefing room table from him, Tyler hadn’t moved._

_"That's - ridiculous," he said eventually, shifting back in his seat and cocking an eyebrow. The PADD had been switched off, Gabriel noted, which probably wasn’t a good sign. Tyler was paying attention, now._

_"I thought so too,” Gabriel said. “But the results - even I could see that they had ... promise."_

_That was all he had allowed himself at first. Promise._

_"But it didn't work."_

_“Oh, it worked.”_

_" Discovery_ was equipped with one of these drives," Una continued, apparently taking Gabriel's silence for a lack of understanding. "It was highly experimental. Completely revolutionary. I'll spare you the science lesson, but suffice to say that it was the most advanced ship in the 'Fleet." She shook her head. "And the tech wasn't even close to being the thing that made her special." 

_Once they’d plundered Stamets’s schematics, the rebels had set about building their own drive and, after a few false starts, quickly mastered the art of transporting - jumping, more accurately - small objects, even small lifeforms, between preset points over short distances._

_“Problem was, once we scaled it up - we couldn’t control it. The drive was unstable over long distances. Meantime, we were losing ground. If our work fell into the wrong hands – the results would be catastrophic. With a ship that could be anywhere and gone in an instant, the Terrans would wipe us out, and we’d never see them coming. We had to make sure the last of Stamets’s research was destroyed. Forever.”_

_For the first and final flight of what they’d dubbed the spore drive, the rebels packed a basic shuttle with everything. The research, the last of the spores. A computer to run life support systems. The drive itself. A pilot's station, little more than a seat with panels built in to both armrests, keyed to Gabriel’s biosignature._

_And restraints, so that he couldn’t change his mind once he’d set off._

_They had become like a family to him, but the rebels were nothing if not practical._

_"If I got home, Starfleet protocol would ensure the tech was destroyed. And if I didn't make it … the rebels would ensure the same thing." Gabriel rolled his jaw. "Either way, everyone's happy. Or - dead, and not able to complain about it."_

_Tyler looked aghast._

Suspended between the four of them, the entire holographic ship was spinning on a horizontal axis, faster and faster, until it blinked out and back again.

_The furthest they had successfully jumped organic material was a few hundred kilometers. If you were travelling in normal space, the distance was nothing. Infinitesimal._

_But if you were travelling_ outside _of normal space, to a corresponding point on an alternate plane—_

_An infinitesimal chance was a lot, when you had nothing else left._

_"You said you couldn't control it. How_ — _?"_

_Gabriel rolled up his sleeves, slow and deliberate, no sudden movements, and lay his palms flat on the table. In the unforgiving overhead lights of the briefing room, the scars on his hands and arms, the snaking maps of his journey home, almost glowed._

_"I took the helm," he said simply._

_Tyler's face was ashen. Gabriel shrugged._

_"I never said it was a_ good _plan."_

Hands clasped on the table in front of him, Gabriel swallowed and rubbed his thumb along the ridges of his scars.

He found himself zoning out while Una ran through the ship's systems, hands flying back and forth in the air as she zoomed in and out of various areas of the schematics. At last, she powered down the projection, and the ghostly ship shrank in on itself and disappeared. 

"Captain, we can give you the answers that Starfleet wouldn't,” she said, looking - not uncertain, exactly, because Gabriel had the distinct impression that she’d never been uncertain of anything in her life, but less than certain for the first time since they’d met. “But I should warn you that they may not be easy to hear."

Gabriel rubbed at the back of his neck. 

"Had a feeling you’d say that." He lifted his chin to meet her gaze, steady. "Alright. You brought me all this way to talk. So talk."

"We can go one better than that. You can see for yourself," said Una.

She nodded to Sarek.

"One of the crew was a cybernetically augmented human named Airiam," he explained. “Before her death, Commander Airiam downloaded a number of memories to her neural back up system.” He set a small device between them, of a construction Gabriel didn’t recognise. It was about the size of his palm, and looked for all the world like a Vulcan trinket box, if that was even a thing, inlaid with precious metal. “This contains those memories.”

Gabriel sat back, his eyes fixed on it as though it might explode. 

“Am I allowed to ask how you got a hold of that?” 

“Airiam left the memories to a friend in her will,” Amanda supplied. “And we … recovered them.”

“We didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Una said, arching an eyebrow. “Not everyone launches a full-scale heist every time they want to find something out.”

“Says the person who kidnapped me to get my attention.”

“It was _not_ a kidnap—”

“Perhaps it would be prudent to postpone this - debate,” Sarek interjected, and if Gabriel didn’t know better he would have sworn that he sounded exasperated. “Captain, suffice to say these memories will provide many of the answers you have been seeking.”

“If you want to see them,” Amanda said softly. “If you think you’re ready.”

 _No. No, I’m not,_ Gabriel thought.

Between his hand and the device, steam curled from his glass. He breathed in deeply, trying to take advantage of the tea’s calming vapours.

Wouldn’t do to go having an emotion in front of a Vulcan.

“No - time like the present,” he said instead. 

“We’ll give you some space.” Amanda stood, placing a hand lightly on her husband’s arm as she did so.

“Ah. Yes. Indeed,” said Sarek, following suit, apparently the recipient of the telepathic equivalent of a dig in the ribs. 

Una looked like she wanted to say something, but settled instead for giving Gabriel’s shoulder a gruff squeeze before leaving behind the others. 

Alone, Gabriel took one last, fortifying, sip of tea and stared at the device. Drumming the fingers of his free hand on the stone table, he considered the gem at its centre. 

He reached out and pressed it. 

Gabriel sighed and set his glass down as the device began to unfurl like the petals of a flower, revealing a pair of neural transmitters within.

“No time like the present,” he muttered again.

Hands steady, he placed the transmitters on his temples, and let the memories begin.


	11. Chapter 11

_I, uh - this is not how I intended to say all this to you, but unfortunately I don’t have much choice. I ship out today, and - it doesn’t matter. Let’s just say time’s not on my side._

_I wanted to tell you that you were right. About everything. Just like always. It took me too long to realise that. And I’m sorry._

_I know I don’t deserve this, but there’s one last thing I need to ask you to do._

_I've sent a case along with this recording. Find its rightful owner. Tell him…_

_… oh, you’ll know what to tell him._

_I have to go. There’s so much more I wanted to say, but … there’s no more time._

_Take care. Ruffle a few feathers. Make them all proud._

_I know you will._

_-Transcript of encrypted recording sent by <UNKNOWN USER> to <UNKNOWN USER>, 2266 _

 

* * *

 _The Federation is at war - Lieutenant Commander Airiam, reporting for duty_ _-_

_\- we get one chance to get it right - black alert -_

_\- don’t try and con a con man -_

_-let’s go home -_

_\- sensors are going haywire - not our universe -_

_\- we are Starfleet - do we need a mutiny today to prove who we are? -_

_\- we have to be torchbearers -_

_\- hail’s from Captain Pike, sir -_

_\- seven red bursts - I was briefed on the classified details surrounding your last captain -_

_\- another signal has just appeared -_

_\- Control—_

 

 

**_Vulcan, 2270_ **

Grimacing at the lurch back to his own surroundings, Gabriel removed the transmitters and placed them carefully in the box. Its sides began to coil back around itself, like a flower closing at night, hiding them safely away again.

The tea had long gone cold, but he gulped at it anyway, draining his glass, anything to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth.

He rested his head in his hands and swallowed down a wave of nausea that he told himself was just a side effect of the transmitters. Having two years' worth of another person’s memories play out on the inside of your own eyeballs was inevitably disorienting. That was all.

It wasn't because he'd met an entire crew, watched them form friendships and fall in love and overcome the impossible and then lost them, all in the space of a few short hours. 

It wasn’t because he’d seen a monster, and it had looked back with his own face _—_

“Captain Lorca?” 

Gabriel sat up abruptly. Amanda. He hadn’t even heard her approach.

"Are you alright?" Her voice was low as she took one of the seats next to him, watching him with obvious worry.

"Fine. Just a little dizzy," Gabriel lied, mindful of Sarek returning to the chamber, just on the edge of his vision. In truth, he felt - shaky and wrung out, like he was in the aftermath of a nightmare. 

Amanda’s concern was dangerous. Gabriel could hold things together - he was _good_ at it, had plenty of practice at locking away inconvenient feelings. Tamp them down, carry on. Keep going. It had kept him safe for years. But Amanda … it was like she could see through his defences, see all the way through him. She made him feel vulnerable.

A human living in this place could probably spot emotions at five hundred klicks.

He stood, as quickly as he could manage without looking rude, and retreated to the far wall of the chamber, determined to put himself as much space as possible between himself and Amanda. 

“Embedding Airiam's emotions into those things was a cheap trick,” he said, gesturing at the little box containing the transmitters. 

Even at this distance, Gabriel could see Sarek’s eyebrow twitch, as though the idea were distasteful. Which it probably was. Great. Add 'faux pas' to the list of reasons why today was going so badly.

“Commander Airiam regulated her emotions via a discrete subroutine. They were not a part of her neural backup processes.” 

The two of them looked at each other for a long moment. Gabriel - who was never going to win a staring contest with a Vulcan even on the best of days, which this was certainly not - was the first to blink.

“Oh,” he said softly.

He paced, because pacing gave him something to do besides ponder the implications of that, scrubbing at his forehead as he went.

“You said she died. Airiam.”

“A short time before _Discovery’s_ final mission.”

Gabriel shook his head. Airiam had been young. Her role in Ops was reasonably safe, so far as any position in Starfleet could be considered safe. It made no sense.  

“What happened?”

"She was vented into space," Sarek said, as though commenting on the weather. Amanda winced, but Gabriel found he didn't mind his bluntness, for once. After all this cryptic nonsense, facts were helpful. Facts gave him something real to hold on to.

"Why?"

"Control had indeed - what is the human expression? - 'gone rogue'. It was attempting to gain sentience, risking all life as we know it. As part of this attempt, it hacked Airiam and forced her to turn on her crewmates. Realising that she had been compromised, she managed to warn them that the only way to stop her would be to open the airlock."

Gabriel stared at the wall, touched a hand to it as though he would find answers there.

"When?" His mouth was dry.

"The last memory you saw took place approximately four hours prior to those events."

Four hours. Airiam's final memory had been a crew briefing. She had been as absorbed in trying to dissuade Tilly from a fourth cup of coffee as she had the contents of the briefing itself. Everything had seemed normal - for the given value of 'normal' that Starfleet always operated under. A normal morning. Until it wasn't. 

"Outside of Starfleet's authority and under the command of Admiral Cornwell, _Discovery_ attempted to neutralise Control," Sarek continued, in the same calm tone that he probably used for shopping lists and to announce that a fire had broken out in the next room alike. "In the ensuing battle—"

 _"Discovery_ was destroyed," Gabriel said quietly, without looking round. "And Kat was killed on the _Enterprise._ I know. I saw the inquest files."

On the rough surface of the wall, Gabriel's fist had bunched. He was pressing so hard that the sharp edges of the rock had scratched his skin. Realising that seemed to wake up his pain receptors, and he dropped his arm to his side hastily.

"I knew Admiral Cornwell. We worked closely together during the Federation-Klingon war," Sarek said. "She was in many ways - exceptional."

Somewhere in the distance, deep in the caves, a stream trickled. Gabriel concentrated on the undulations in the rock, the grooves and nicks caused by the centuries, anything to avoid meeting Sarek's gaze, or to think about the fact that this was as close as he'd ever heard a Vulcan come to expressing sympathy.

"She was that," he said at last.

"Her actions saved the _Enterprise,"_ Amanda said softly. "The battle would have been lost without her. And so, in a way, would everything else. She was a hero."

It was meant as consolation. The kindness of it was like a knife in his stomach. 

Kat was a hero, and that fact didn’t change a damn thing.

“So how do we get to - this?” he managed, with a gesture that took all of them in. He had to make sure he remained a moving target. Stay on one subject too long and his emotions would catch him up. “Hiding in caves and plotting treason?”

Una’s shoulders stiffened into a hard line, like she was bracing herself.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Amanda said. Una nodded, acknowledging her assurances, but did not unclench.

“Those of us who - made it back were … terrified,” she began slowly. “We wanted to ensure that nothing like this could ever happen again. We agreed that the safest course - the _only_ course - was to persuade Starfleet to erase all possible trace of the mission, the ship, and her crew. Forever.”

“We?”

“Me. Chris. And—”

“Our son. Spock,” Sarek finished, picking up from Una’s glance. “He does not share our views.”

Gabriel blew out his cheeks.

“That’s … complicated.”

“In what way?” Sarek enquired.

“I - because…” Gabriel fumbled for the right words, gave up,  and looked to Amanda for support instead.

“It’s complicated,” she confirmed, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Gabriel managed a nod. Yeah. Just like everything else. Complicated. 

"Obviously your plan worked," he said, turning back to Una. He hadn't meant to put any emphasis on the 'your'. It hardly seemed fair. How many difficult calls had he made over the years? How many could he justify in almost exactly the same terms? But the barb was there, in spite of himself. If Una felt it, she didn't react.

"Like a dream," she said, though her tone suggested the opposite. "Those crewmembers who were evacuated were assigned cover stories and given new commissions. The record was purged." Gabriel thought back to the gaps in Pippa and Kat's files. The gaps in his. Holes the size of a starship, a pattern repeated over and over again in the records of _Discovery_ 's crew, in photo albums and family dinners across the quadrant. "And surely enough, people began to … forget. Just like that."

"Space is big and memory is short," Gabriel murmured. 

"Hmm?"

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

"Something someone told me once." Gabriel pressed a thumb hard against his brow, noticing a familiar headache beginning to take up residence there once again. He crossed the chamber, took up one of the stone seats again, ran a hand over his face. Tried to focus. "So. Then what? You get cold feet?"

"The full implications took a while to sink in. But as time went on … yes, I suppose you could call it cold feet. That crew knew what they were signing up for when they agreed to the mission. They knew it risked everything. They made the choice willingly. But they didn't sign up for this. They didn't sign up for what we did to them. They didn’t sign up to be forgotten."

Airiam, diligently backing up her memories every week. Kat, promising Pippa - promising _the Emperor_ \- that they would be remembered. _Justice for the Buran,_ filing another request for a memorial that would go unanswered. 

 _Discovery_ ’s crew hadn’t signed up to be forgotten. The _Buran_ ’s crew hadn’t signed up to be forgotten. Pippa hadn’t signed up to be forgotten, Kat hadn’t signed up to be forgotten, _he_ hadn’t signed up to be forgotten. None of them had signed up for any of this. And yet, here they all were. 

The scale of it made Gabriel feel dizzy, like emotional vertigo.

“And that’s it?” he managed, hands gripped tight on the edge of the table, trying to anchor himself even as the room seemed to sway.

“What else were you expecting?” Sarek asked, with the slightest upwards quirk of his left eyebrow.

_Some kind of reason for all this. Something that makes some damn sense. Not a whole ship being blinked out of existence, whole lives, all because a few people got jumpy._

Ten years of looking. There had to be more. 

“Vulcans have tells, just like everyone else. Did you know that? Yours is _that eyebrow.”_ Gabriel jabbed a finger at Sarek. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“I was not aware that we had met before,” was all Sarek said, his traitorous eyebrow now carefully immobile.

 _“We_ haven’t.” Gabriel sat back. “What are you keeping from me?”

Una simply watched him, impassive.

"We've told you everything that you need to make sense of those missing years," she said smoothly. 

That was true. Gabriel had - almost too much, thanks to them, more than he could ever have found on his own, far more than he could begin to process in any sort of meaningful way right now. But he'd been hauled clear across the quadrant on a wild goose chase and frozen half to death and sandblasted in the process, and he didn't feel like making things easy for anyone.

"Maybe. But you haven't told me _everything_ ," he said. "Missions get classified every day. Hell, _ships_ probably get classified every day. They don't get wiped clean from the historical record. So what are you leaving out of this little narrative of yours?"

Again, the poker faces. Cards close to their chests.

“Seven red bursts," he insisted. "Seven red bursts on their final mission. Just happening to lead them where they need to be. You expect me to believe that's a coincidence? What else happened?"

A look passed between them that Gabriel couldn't parse. But they didn't deny his assertion, he noticed.

"You must understand," Sarek said at last, looking from Una to him as though she had given him permission to speak, "that there are certain - facets of this story that must be kept safe.”

“Kept secret, you mean,” Gabriel sneered, the venom in his voice taking even him by surprise. “I thought this was all about the truth.”

“Kept _safe,”_ Una repeated. “We want to make sure that _Discovery_ is remembered, yes. But there are some things that are even more important. The security of the entire universe, for example.”

"Bullshit." Gabriel said the word with considerably more conviction than he really felt.

"We are not in the business of exaggeration, Captain Lorca," Sarek said, placid.

_No. Just the business of deciding what's best for everyone else._

Just like Starfleet.

“Secrets all the way down,” Gabriel muttered, his lip curling.

“We would be willing to bring you further into our confidence,” Una said, still unflappable. Opposite her, Amanda’s expression sharpened for the first time. 

“Sounds like there's an 'if' there, somewhere” Gabriel said, skeptical. A muscle in his temple had started to twitch. 

"Una," Amanda warned.

“If you join us.” At Amanda’s unspoken reproach, Una raised an eyebrow, almost as Vulcan as the Vulcan beside her. “I wasn’t going to ask on our first meeting, no. But Captain Lorca has already seen more than most. I see no reason to delay.” She turned back to Gabriel and spread her hands. Cards on the table. “Join the Network. Help us. And in return, we’ll tell you the whole story. I’m sure you can see how your … background would make you an asset to us.”

Gabriel chewed at the inside of his lip. He could see _very_ clearly. 

“You’re as bad as Mudd,” he said, low.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said you’re as bad as Mudd,” Gabriel repeated, louder, trying to drown out the pounding in his ears. He had done his best to keep level up to this point, out of deference to Sarek and respect for the place in which they were sat, but he could feel the balance shifting. “And there I was thinking you wanted to help me. But instead you string me along, and you drag me here, because - what, I’m _useful_ to you?”

“No,” Amanda said hurriedly, shooting an irritated glance at Una, like she had taken the conversation in a direction away from their agreed script. “No, that’s not it at all. We wanted you to have the answers you deserved. We had no expectation—”

“Sure. So you threw me a riddle and left me to flounder. Like I deserved.”

“Had I left you a drive that evening, containing all that you have seen and heard here today, would you have taken it?” Sarek said, with infuriating equanimity. He inclined an eyebrow. “No. Your background, your security training - you would never have touched it. The method had to be one that would speak to you—”

 _“You_ could have spoken to me! Any of you could! You knew exactly what I was looking for, and you kept it from me. I’d been searching for ten years and you _kept it from me._ You’re _still_ keeping things from me.”

“Captain Lorca—”

“Keep your deals, and your secrets. My answer’s no.” Gabriel stood abruptly. “Are we done here? Great.” 

He turned without looking at any of them, doing his best not to picture their expressions. He tried to retrace his steps back through the corridors, half-blind after the light in the chamber.

“Captain Lorca!” Una’s voice echoed in the silence.

Gabriel picked up the pace, one hand against the wall as he tried to reorient himself, but determined footsteps behind him grew louder.

“You said this wasn’t a kidnap. That means I get to leave whenever I want,” he said, without turning. “And that’s right now.”

“Captain—”

“I won’t tell anyone about the Network. You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours. But I’m through with this. All of this.”

Light appeared ahead, beacon bright in the gloom, and Gabriel charged on, reaching the entrance chamber with its great glass doors at last.

"I thought you said that you wanted the truth."

Gabriel wheeled about to face Una. 

“I _wanted_ to know what happened to my friends. That was all. Some answers. Maybe a chance to move on with my life, finally. And what I got was - worse than anything I could have imagined.” The words were tumbling out of him now, hurt and anger along with them, and there was nothing he could do to hold them back. “I've been lied to. Manipulated. And in the last couple days I've also been drugged and _kidnapped_ and I am finished. With all of this. All of _you._ I'm going to go home and mourn my friends. Because _someone_ should. And I never want to hear from you and your crackpot society about some damn mythical ship again.”

He stalked away down the long chamber. The storm was still battering the doors, the sand rendering almost everything beyond them invisible, but he didn’t care. He could just walk right out into it, keep walking, until he’d forgotten all about this place and the things he had learned. 

“Chris told me—”

“Oh, _Chris_ told you?” Gabriel echoed, whipping around once more. “His highness finally deigns to acknowledge me. Nice of him to show up, by the way, real nice. What did _Chris_ tell you?”

Gabriel was trembling. On some rational level he knew that he needed to calm down, but it was like the lid had been prised open on the box into which he had carefully packed all of his rage, and it could never be closed again.

"By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask him - whatever happened to 'Starfleet is a promise'? Or does that only count when you're on the right side of a blast door? Huh? When you're the one who gets to be the hero?"

Una went still.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she said, very quietly.

"I know he killed Kat," Gabriel snarled.

He'd gone too far. He regretted the words almost as soon as they'd left his mouth. Even if he hadn't, the stricken expression on Una's face alone should have been enough to make him see reason, to stop, back up and apologise.

But Gabriel had never been one to do things by halves. 

So instead, he kept going.

 _"Enterprise_ was his ship. _His_ responsibility. The bastard killed Kat, and he was too much of a coward to even tell me to my face."

"Chris was no coward."

"Oh no, not Chris. Gabriel Lorca? Now _there's_ a coward, _there's_ a guy who'd leave his crew for dead to save his own skin. But not Chris Pike, never _Saint_ _Christopher—"_

"You have no idea what that mission did to him. None at all."

Gabriel laughed, hollow.

"You tell _Chris_ that I don't need his guilt. Got plenty of my own to keep me occupied."

Swept along by his anger, Gabriel found himself almost at the doors, close enough to feel the warmth of the sun through the glass, when Una spoke, softly. 

“You don’t know, do you?”

Something about her tone wrongfooted Gabriel, enough to make him turn to face her again. At his blank expression, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She exhaled through her nose, suddenly weary.

“There was an accident. On Chris’s last command. Delta radiation leak in the engine room of a Class J,” she intoned, like she was reeling off an official report. Although she was looking straight at him now, Gabriel got the distinct impression it was an effort to hold his gaze. “There were cadets trapped. He went back, got the kids to safety, but—” Una broke off, drew her top lip in under her teeth. She was silent a long while, long enough that Gabriel could have almost finished the sentence for her when it finally came. “The blast door came down before he could make it out.” 

Gabriel had thought that Una’s face was hard to read before, but it was nothing compared to this. She was utterly blank now. It was like she’d shut down altogether. He almost wished she would not-raise her eyebrow at him again, or smirk, or quip at him, or - anything, really, except this. 

The urge to walk out into the storm was back again, but now he just wanted the sand to swallow him whole.

“I didn't know,” he managed, through a throat that felt like it was closing up. “I didn’t - I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t,” Una said, like she was reminding herself of that fact, too. “Chris’s injuries were - extensive. But he survived, somehow. And then, about three years ago, he just … disappeared.”

She lingered on that last word just a fraction too long. 

“You suspect Starfleet?”

“We both know how much they hate … complications. _Discovery._ You." Una shrugged, a casual gesture that was anything but. "I’m pretty sure he didn’t take himself off to - wherever he is now. But I’ve never been able to prove anything, and … I’m not sure he’d want me to, even if I could.” She sighed. “The truth is, I hadn’t seen Chris in - oh, years. Even before - all of that.”

Gabriel stared at her. Chris and Una had been - inseparable. It hadn't even occurred to him that they might not have been in this thing together.

“On the second anniversary of _Discovery’s_ final mission, we held a quiet memorial. Just the three of us. And it - didn’t feel like enough. Nothing like enough. I found Chris afterwards. Told him that I wanted to try and persuade Command to undo the cover up. Tell everyone what had happened. Asked for his help." Una laughed, mirthlessly. "I always used to say that Chris's ability to listen was one of his best qualities. I thought that with the right evidence, there was nothing I couldn't convince him of."

“Except this.” The words felt sour in Gabriel’s mouth. 

“He agonised over it. That was the worst thing. He listened, and he thought about it, and he still—" Una took a sharp breath, and suddenly she was all composure again. "After that, things … changed. Slowly, at first, but - they changed. _We_ changed. Chris and I drifted apart. He moved on to a new commission, and I…”

“Left Starfleet,” Gabriel finished.

“It had become impossible to square the values I’d sworn to uphold with what we’d done. So - yes, I left the ‘Fleet. Started the Network. We kept out of Chris’s path, and he kept out of ours. Then out of the blue, I got a message from him, saying - all sorts of things. That he was sorry. That he’d been wrong. And that I should find _you.”_

Gabriel folded his arms, suppressing a shiver despite the heat of the sun on his back.

"Why?"

Una didn't reply immediately. 

"Do you know the odds of you getting back from that place?" she asked instead. "I ran some calculations. They were - astronomical. Roughly equivalent to being struck by lightning eleven times. By all reckoning, you should be dead. But here you are."

Una's voice was steady, far steadier than Gabriel's, which was chipped through with a brittle bitterness that only got worse the more he tried to hide it.

“What’s your point?” 

"I never got a chance to ask Chris exactly what he meant. But if I had to guess, I’d say it was because he knew that we needed someone who wasn’t afraid of those kinds of odds. Someone who didn't know the meaning of a lost cause. Someone who would never give up."

It wasn’t true to say that the odds had never mattered. The odds had been like a lead weight around Gabriel’s neck that grew heavier with every passing year, sinking him deeper and deeper into the ground—

"Yeah. I used to know a guy like that," he said quietly.

But where there were odds, there was still a chance. However distant, however improbable, however many circles of hell deep the gnat had to fly to find it, there was still a chance. A chance he’d get out, get out alive, get home—

"So what happened to him?"

—Then he _got_ home, and—

"He gave up." Pulling his scarf back around his face as he went, Gabriel covered the last of the distance between him and the door in long strides, bracing for the storm. "Take me home."

"You mean - Dj'reek?" Una called after him. "You want to go back _there?"_

Gabriel stopped, looking back over his shoulder at her.

_No. I want to go to Ilari. The moons of Andoria. I want nebulae and gas giants and neutron stars in a ship that runs on prayer and duct tape. I want Earth, I want to lose at poker, I want to be kicked out of fancy Parisian bars, I want single malt and a blanket under the stars._

_I want to go_ home.

"Yes," he lied.

In the long moment that followed, Gabriel was glad that the scarf hid most of his face. Without it, he wouldn’t have been able to keep up the mask for very long.

"Alright," Una said at last, coolly. "Home."

It was a long flight back to Dj’reek, made longer by the taut silence between them in the shuttle. There wasn't enough space for them to really avoid each other, so they took it in shifts to sleep - or to pretend to sleep, in Gabriel’s case - and pilot, minimising awkward interactions to a few terse minutes of handover when they exchanged places.

He didn't feel afraid, he realised dully, climbing back into his bunk on the third day. Hadn't once, not on this whole voyage. 

Hell of a time for his space legs to come back.

By the time they made the docks, Gabriel had churned through anger, despair, disgust and embarrassment so many times that it had all just congealed into a sick, hollow sort of a feeling in his stomach.

“This is yours,” Una said curtly, finally breaking the silence for the first time in hours as the computer took over the last of the docking procedures. 

Gabriel stared at the small, rectangular case she held out to him. 

“I don’t want it,” he mumbled with a shrug. His own voice sounded strange to him, after so long without speaking. 

Una's nostrils flared, but that was the only outward display of emotion that she permitted herself. She simply stood, business-like, and placed it on the empty seat next to him as she passed on her way to the aft section to check that systems were ready for disembarking. 

He didn’t have many belongings to pack, but Gabriel busied himself with checking his bag until he ran out of things that he could plausibly be looking for. Defeated, he made certain that Una wasn’t watching, then reached for the box, hefting it experimentally in his hand. Whatever it was, its casing was battered and dented, like it had rattled around the cargo hold of more than one ship before it had reached him. 

He flipped it over, looking for some clue as to its provenance, and stopped short. 

On its underside was a Starfleet insignia. The proper one, all points and angles, not the new-fangled, smoothed out thing that passed for the delta these days. But it was the words beneath it that really caught his attention, embossed in heavy block letters that had been half obliterated by scratches and scuffs:

_G. LORCA, USS BURAN_

The shock was like a forcefield sting. Gabriel dropped the case, let it fall back onto the seat, and scrambled to his feet. 

Sounds of bustling and yelling drifted over from aft. They had docked, the doors disengaged. Relieved, he slung his bag over his shoulder and hurried towards the noise, gulping in what passed for fresh air here as he went.

He only made it a few short steps before he stopped. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the little box was just where he had left it, stubborn and accusatory on the seat.

Which was stupid, obviously.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, shoving it down to the very bottom of his bag. 

Una was waiting for him by the shuttle hatch. 

“Goodbye, Captain Lorca,” she said stiffly. 

In dozens of other universes, there might have been dozens of Gabriel Lorcas, dozens of Unas, who made a different decision. Who apologised, maybe. Admitted they'd been wrong, at least. Tried to start again.

In this universe, though, all this Gabriel could manage was a short nod before he strode down the ramp into the bustle of the docks and the drizzle of Dj’reek, shoulders squared. 

And Una let him go.

He heard the hiss of the door sliding shut behind him and didn’t look back. 

*

Gabriel lingered in the doorway of his apartment and squinted at the darkened room beyond.

Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Exactly the same as it always was. 

He had gone all that way, and nothing had changed. 

He had always thought that once he knew the truth, things would be different. Better. That _he_ would be better. That he would feel - relieved. Unburdened. Free, even.  

Everything was the same. He was the same.

He was still alone. 

Nothing had changed. 

He stuck the box on top of the bookshelf, and pushed it right to the back where he didn’t have to look at it.

Walking on unsteady legs, Gabriel tugged off his jacket, boots, shirt, pants and left them where they fell in a trail through the otherwise spotless apartment. He wove his way to the bedroom, fell into the too soft, too big bed, curled up under the covers, and hoped that he would somehow fall right through it and never be found again.


	12. Chapter 12

_We have all lost colleagues. We have all lost friends._

_Remembering can feel hard. I know that. It's complicated. It can hurt. Right now, while our loss is so new, it might feel safest to retreat from that pain._

_You have already been asked to show bravery beyond all measure, over and over again._

_But I am asking you to be brave once more._

_Remember them._

_Tell their stories. Keep them with you in your words and deeds. And while you do, while even one of you remembers them, know that they are never truly gone._

 

_\- Transcript of a speech given by Cornwell, Vice Admiral K., 2256 (classified 2257)_

 

* * *

 

**Dj’reek, 2270**

 

Gabriel lay on the sofa, staring blankly at the screen. 

He had been staring at it now for … oh, time. Hours, probably. Maybe only minutes. It didn't seem to matter much, either way. 

Nothing seemed to matter very much.

So, all out of better ideas, and all out of energy to try anything else in any case, Gabriel lay on the sofa, and stared blankly at the screen, while his brain presented all the various reasons he could feel crappy that day, like some overenthusiastic sommelier of shit. 

 _Would sir care to sample the menu? Today’s special is self loathing brought on by the fact that you were replaced by a fascist from a nightmare parallel universe and practically nobody noticed. If you’re feeling adventurous, might I suggest the fact that your friend died and was then_ also _replaced, also by a fascist, also from a nightmare parallel universe, and everyone carried on like this was completely normal and OK?_

_Or perhaps you'd like to try the fact that your counterpart, who by all accounts was as dumb as a box of rocks, managed to figure out a way home in a fifth of the time it took you? It pairs very well with the fact that a Starfleet vessel was There and you totally missed it, thereby marooning yourself in that place for another four years. A new twist on a classic that's been keeping you up at night for a decade now!_

_If sir would like to feel truly terrible, I would recommend the fact that the pressure of the war pushed your best friend to the brink of a decision that must have torn her apart and then, after peace had been declared, when the Federation was rebuilding, when her skills could have been of most use, she was killed, senselessly, and her achievements paved over for no real reason you've been able to figure out._

_What about the fact that the one person who could have helped you to make sense of some of this made a conscious decision not to, then had a life-changing accident and is now missing, presumed dead? Or the fact that you yelled at that person’s grieving best friend?_

_Why not try the fact that the organisation to which you committed half of your life lied to you, systematically, about everything that happened while you were gone, up to and including the total erasure of an entire crew of people - this one comes with a complex bitter aftertaste of ‘they gave Him another ship’, it really is_ exquisite _\- brilliant people, people with their whole damn lives ahead of them, people who gave up everything to save the rest of the universe?_

_How about the fact that nothing you found out makes any difference, because everyone you love is still dead, and it turns out you’re still an asshole?_

It was the universe’s worst game of Spin the Wheel, and Gabriel was hooked.

Peeking from the top of the bookshelf, the little case that Una had given him caught his eye. Gabriel gazed at it dully.

He could open it. Get whatever fresh disappointment it contained out of the way all in one go.

He rolled over instead.

After too many days of this, Gabriel woke early and decided to try out another exemplary coping strategy that his therapist was sure to approve of. 

He pulled on some clothes and headed out into the rain for the bar.

It was always midday somewhere in the quadrant, after all.

No one paid much attention to him as he pulled up a stool. Same as always. 

“Hey. Zclack. I’m gonna need…” One for Pippa. One for Kat. One for the _Buran._ Hell, one for him, too. He deserved it.

And another for _Discovery._

“... better make it a bottle of the good stuff,” Gabriel finished.

Xxkhlkkk set a lumpy, mud-coloured bottle of the terrible Dj’reekish fake-whisky and a glass in front of Gabriel, and watched wordlessly as he poured himself a generous measure and knocked it back.

“Sho?” xe asked, once he had finished grimacing. 

“So what?” rasped Gabriel, reaching for another pour. Keep ’em coming. That was the trick with this stuff. Never let your tastebuds catch up with your brain. 

“Khirkh. Mhy shuttle.”

Gabriel tilted back the bottle mid-flow. _Shit._ He’d forgotten all about that.

Xxkhlkkk’s bristles rippled.

“I shee,” xe said stiffly, and turned xir back to Gabriel, busying xirself with tidying the display behind the bar with rather more force than it strictly warranted, iridescent wings held in tense lines. 

Elbows resting on the sticky bartop, Gabriel put his head in his hands and knotted his hands in his hair.

Great. Another option to add to the menu.

“People will always disappoint you, Zclack,” he muttered. 

Xxkhlkkk twitched xir antennae in agreement, but did not reply. 

Gabriel was soaked to the skin and freezing cold by the time he squelched back to the apartment.

He stomped into the bathroom, turned the shower up as hot as it would go. While it sputtered into life, he peeled off his damp clothes, tossing them into a corner, and stared at himself in the mirror, leaning on his knuckles either side of the sink. 

His scars had been a part of him for so long now - and, besides, so few people on Dj'reek really knew what constituted 'usual' for a human that they were usually more curious about his beard than they were the marks on his arms - that he didn't have much cause to think about them, most of the time. But he looked at them now, really looked at them, following their dendritic trails all the way up from his fingertips, along the length of his arms, to the point where they converged, right above his heart. 

He was lucky to be alive. That was what they'd told him, when he’d woken up all those years ago, when he’d been brought out of his coma to find himself in a secure ward in Starfleet Medical. It was a statement that had proved to be true in one regard and an utter lie in a whole lot of others. 

The steam from the shower finally obscured his face from view, and he stepped beneath its jets, letting the water roll over him, watching it swirl away down the drain between his toes.

He could have just asked Medical to fix the scars. They'd fixed more or less everything else, after all - he contained more duranium than a light shuttlecraft these days. But the scars ... Gabriel had never been able to bring himself to get rid of them, for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

By the time he stuck out a hand to cut off the shower, Gabriel felt considerably more sober. He decided to reserve judgement on whether or not that was a good thing.  

Fresh t-shirt. Clean pants. He wouldn't win any beauty contests, but it was an improvement. A step towards an improvement, at least.

Back in the living room, Gabriel stood in front of his bookcase and breathed out slowly, pushing back his damp hair. Courage screwed up, he stretched for the little case tucked away at the very back of the top shelf, and turned it over to read the scuffed inscription there again.

_G. LORCA, USS BURAN_

Settling on the floor, knees drawn up, back against the sofa, he placed the case on his lap.

A bit like the whisky, the trick was probably to get this over with as quickly as possible. 

He snapped open the catches and flipped up the lid, resting it against his thighs.

His hand didn't shake, he noticed, with scientific detachment, as he reached for the folded piece of paper that lay on top. That was interesting.

_Gabriel,_

_When I heard that you were back, I wanted to see you straight away. The truth is, I was afraid. Of a lot of things. I should have figured out a way. I should have replied to your messages, at least. This was the best I could come up with._

_I know it’s too late, and I know it could never be enough. I don’t even know if this will reach you. I have no idea where you are right now. All I do know is that if anyone can work it out, it’s the person I’ve given this to. You can trust them with your life. I have, more times than I can count._

_I should have trusted them one more time. Something else I figured out too late._

_After Kat died, Command seized most of her personal effects. I tried to save what I could, but by the time I got there a lot had already been destroyed. Somehow they missed this. I’m not even sure how she came to have it. My best guess is that she tried to do the same for you when your files were classified._

_She always was the best of Starfleet. The best of all of us._

_And I’m sorry. For all of this._

_Chris_

Gabriel exhaled through his nose, slowly, suddenly aware of how tightly he had been holding his jaw. 

Chris had held the answers the whole time. Gabriel could have learned all of this years ago. Could have heard it from a friend, not strangers. It wouldn't have made the words any better, or any easier to bear, but at least Gabriel would have _known_. He wouldn't have been left scrabbling in the dark. And instead, Chris had abandoned Gabriel when he had needed him most, Chris had—

—had been through unspeakable horrors of his own. 

Gabriel had been dreaming about blast doors a lot lately. The dream was always the same. It was just the person on the other side of the glass that changed. 

The expression on Una's face, the one she hadn't quite managed to mask in time, kept playing over in Gabriel's mind. 

He got the feeling she’d had that same dream too. 

Gabriel rubbed at the back of his neck. 

What a fucking mess. Chris. Him. This whole thing. All of it.

And now there was no way to make any of it right.

Unclenching his jaw at last, Gabriel set the note, and along with it the roiling mass of emotions it threatened to unleash, to one side, to deal with later. He would _have_ to deal with it later, he guessed.

He pictured himself trying to explain any of this to his therapist and laughed mirthlessly.

Gabriel turned his attention back to the case, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was packed full of photos. Dozens and dozens of photos. Photos of Kat. Of Pippa. Of him. 

They all looked so young, far younger than he remembered ever being. Back before ranks and responsibilities. Back before everything got so complicated. 

Gabriel’s allergy to having his picture taken was only too obvious. He scowled at the camera in every shot he appeared in, frowns adding lines to his face that wouldn’t set in properly for another few decades—

Wait. Not every shot. 

He didn’t remember the occasion - some kind of Academy party, judging by the tell-tale debris scattered on the floor around them - or who had taken the picture. Pippa, most likely. She’d always liked to have a little gentle blackmail material stashed away. If he was being honest, he didn’t remember the conversation they’d been having. Might not have remembered it by the next morning, even, depending on whatever terrible concoction had been in the cups beside them. 

But he remembered that look on Kat’s face. Her hands flying, mid-explanation, expressions more effusive than usual thanks to the alcohol. 

And there, leaning forward, so close that he was practically bridging the gap between them, close enough that he was squarely in the line of fire of Kat’s gestures, grinning at her like there was no camera, like there was nobody else but her in the room at all, was him.

They … really had not been as subtle about things as they’d thought they were, in hindsight.

It must have been obvious to everyone except them. 

Maybe it had been obvious to them, too.

It had been obvious to him.

Gabriel put the case down, rested his head in the heel of his hand, eyes closed tightly, until the _what ifs_ subsided. 

At last he sniffed and straightened up, wiping his eyes. 

There were more photos, so many more. Gabriel unpacked them one by one, examining each and then spreading them out on the carpet in a growing halo around him, like a detective in a shitty holodrama, piecing together evidence.

 _The one last mystery left to solve,_ he thought grimly. _What the hell happened to Gabriel Lorca…?_

Taking great care, he lifted the next photo from the case. An image of the whole _Buran_ crew, assembled in the cargo bay, which had been hastily cleared for an official photo. Which this most assuredly was not. Jones a blur of laughter in the front row. Xhao bent double with giggles, having to lean on Hazell for support. Cardew rolling his eyes so hard that the inertial dampeners would probably have to compensate for all the extra movement. Even Landry, arms folded, barely suppressing her smile. And Gabriel, in the middle of it all, pretending to be exasperated, knowing full well that this would be the only version of this photo worth a damn. 

Maybe, somewhere, someone had a photo just like this of _Discovery's_ crew, stashed carefully out of sight.

A double punch of nostalgia and grief landed on Gabriel's chest. For the crew he'd lost, and the crew he'd never had. Both of them forgotten, their legacies erased, all to cover up someone else's mistakes. 

Ignoring the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, Gabriel traced his fingertip from one face to the next. 

If they could see him now, he wondered, would they find him as unfamiliar as he felt to himself?

He had left so much of himself There, then filled up the little that remained with the lies that Starfleet had fed him for so long, that the life in these pictures was entirely alien to him.

He’d forgotten so much of it. He’d forgotten who he used to be.

He’d forgotten who they’d made him. 

He’d forgotten _them._

Gabriel wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, sprawled on the floor, reassembling the fragments of his old life, but at some point, weighed down with the past, and lulled by whispers of ghosts, he allowed his eyes to close and drifted off to sleep.

_Blanket underneath. Stars overhead. So many stars. A chill in the night air, one full of excuses for drawing closer together._

_Gabriel grinned. Reached for the bottle of whisky - the good stuff, the real stuff - that he knew would be beside him—_

_And stopped._

_Under the moonlight, the scars on his hand shone silver._

_“Try to not overthink it.”_

_He turned. Kat. Kat, not as she had been that night, not as she’d looked in the photographs, but as he remembered her last. That knowing smile, crinkles around glittering eyes._

_His hand flew to his own face. Huh. More lines than he’d had back then. And a hell of a lot more beard._

_“We were so young,” she said wistfully, as if in answer to his thoughts. Which, in a way, he supposed it was._

_“Yeah,” Gabriel agreed. “Idiots.”_

_“Speak for yourself.”_

_He shrugged and grinned ruefully, conceding the point. But his half-hearted attempt at humour evaporated as he looked at her._

_“I missed you,” he breathed. "I - miss you."_

Did you miss me? _He couldn’t bring himself to ask._

_He exhaled shakily as she covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently._

_“What is it?” she asked, after a moment._

_It took Gabriel a few tries to get the words out._

_“I’m - afraid.”_

_She considered him for a moment._

_“Why do you think that is?”_

_Gabriel managed a laugh at that._

_“Oh no,” he said, shifting away. “I know all the tricks. I go to therapy now. Willingly. Mostly. You won’t get me that easily, Doc.”_

_“And you won’t get away with it that easily,_ Gabriel. _” Kat’s grip tightened on his hand, reassuring. “Why?”_

_Gabriel tilted his head back to look at the sky. It was shot through with stars. Even more than there had been that night, when the whole sky had danced._

_Funny thing, memory._

_“Because … this ship._ Discovery. _It’s the key, isn’t it? To everything. All of this.”_

_“I thought you wanted to know?”_

_“I did. I do.”_

_“So?”_

_Gabriel drew his hand away from hers._

_"I have no idea what else it's going to unlock. And once it's out there, that's it. There's no way to put it back."_

_In his attempts to get to the truth, he had already picked open old wounds that had barely half-healed - torn new ones, too, wounds he hadn’t even felt yet._

_And there was still more to find._

_He hadn’t let himself feel anything in - so long. Safer that way. And now—_

_“It’s going to hurt.” Kat wasn’t cruel. Just - honest. “But it has to, before it can heal. And you can. Heal.”_

_Gabriel rocked the whisky bottle back and forth so that it caught the light and sparkled._

_“I’d trade it all, you know,” he said, concentrating his frown on it in an attempt to avoid her gaze. “I'd have stayed There, if it meant that—”_

_“Stop.“ She was firm. “Don’t.”_

_“I would. The_ Buran. _Chris. Pippa. You.” He swallowed. “I’m the only one left.”_

_“Hmm. You always were stubborn.” Kat leaned into his line of vision so that he had to look at her. "Still are, by the look of it."_

_Gabriel fumbled for her hand across the expanse of the blanket and clung to it again like maybe it could tether him there, here, to her, to home._

_“I don’t want to be the only one.” He whispered the words, because anything more than that would betray how close his voice was to breaking._

_Kat cupped his cheek with her free hand and he closed his eyes, leaned into her touch, breathing in deep, as if he could slow down time, stop morning arriving, hold off waking up to find she was gone all over again, that she'd never really been there at all._

_She rested her forehead against his, and her thumb brushed away hot tears he hadn’t realised had fallen._

_When she kissed him, she tasted like whisky and the promise of adventure, and she was warm and soft and real and there and everything he remembered and didn’t remember, all at once._

_“So don’t be.”_

Gabriel woke with - not morning light dappling through trees, just the glare of the busted streetlight outside flickering through the blinds on his windows. Not blue skies overhead, just the blue light of his media screen washing over the room. Not a blanket underneath him, just carpet, and photos still strewn around him. 

He straightened up, blinking sleep from his eyes, back protesting after spending too long on the floor. 

His hand, he realised, as more of the room started to come back into focus, was gripped around something. It must have fallen out of the case, he guessed. He uncurled his fingers to take a look, and stared at the small, shiny, metallic object he was holding there, groggy realisation breaking. 

A Starfleet insignia. Not the toy that Mudd had given him. _His_ Starfleet insignia. 

Gabriel closed his eyes, testing the weight of it in his palm. 

It felt perfect. 

He ran his thumb over the pips, one by one, along the line of the delta, and at the bottom left corner, found what he was looking for; a tiny nick, an old shrapnel wound from an away mission gone sour, another scar he’d decided to keep. 

He opened his eyes and turned it over. There was his name, his personnel number—

He stopped. _Not_ his personnel number. Very _nearly_ his personnel number, just a couple of digits switched out of place, but wrong nonetheless. 

Why would—

Gabriel sighed.

He traced his thumbnail around the edge, until - _there._

A catch.

The underside came clean away, leaving him with his delta safely in one hand and the false cover in the other. 

_Kadis-kot._

“Computer,” he grunted, heaving himself to his feet, mindful of the photos underfoot. “Run search.”

He rolled his head from side to side, trying to stretch out his stiff neck while the computer worked.

_“No full matches. Assess partial matches?”_

“No,” Gabriel murmured. He looked down at the fake number in his palm once more, and tried to shrug off his disappointment. “No, thanks. That’s fine.”

It was. It was fine. He hadn’t really expected—

From the kitchen, the replicator chimed.

Gabriel frowned in its direction.

“What the hell..?” 

In the replicator tray, waiting for him, completely out of place in the spotless kitchen, was a fortune cookie. 

He snapped it open, read the slip inside.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The feeling started somewhere in the soles of his feet, made his heart feel too big in his chest, throbbed like a drumbeat in his ears. 

Gabriel straightened up. 

He understood why he’d kept the scars, now.

And he knew what he had to do.

*

The wail of the alarm system meant that Gabriel was bound to attract attention sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner. He found he didn’t mind all that much. He'd been looking forward to this, in fact.

“Hey!” He heard a yell from behind him. “What do you think you’re— _Gabe!”_

Mudd's face was flushed, his chin stubbly beneath his quivering moustache, which sadly seemed to have survived recent events unscathed. He tapped a command into his wrist-PADD, and the alarm cut out abruptly. 

Gabriel didn’t bother looking up as Mudd hurried towards him. Instead, he finished decoupling the docking clamps, hidden as ineffectually as the rest of the shuttle under piles of junk and tarpaulin. 

“Gabe! I’m so - glad you’re alive! Look, about that … whole … thing - I’ve been _racked_ with guilt ever since, absolutely _beside_ myself with worry. It’s been eating me up inside, Gabe, really it has,” Mudd, chronically incapable of handling silence, babbled, watching Gabriel apply his shoulder to the warehouse doors, letting in a cold and soggy breeze. “I was determined to come and rescue you, in fact, but I had something of a cash flow problem, so, you see, getting out of Dj’reek became somewhat complicated and - uh, what - what are you doing there, Gabe?”

Gabriel swept past him and up into the shuttle.

“Commandeering this vessel,” he informed Mudd, over his shoulder.

“But - it’s - that’s _my_ shuttle!” Mudd protested, shrill, while on board, Gabriel put the engines through a pre-launch sequence. “Look - I’ll give you a lift. How about that? Hmm? Anywhere you want to go. I’ll let you choose the music this time. Huh? Gabe? Buddy? Let's get the gang back together—”

He shrank back as Gabriel stormed back down the gangplank towards him, stony-faced.

“I think,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth, shoving a duffel bag of Mudd’s possessions into his unresisting arms, “that it would be a very good idea for you to get off this rock, as soon as possible, and go somewhere very, very far away.”

Mudd’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened and closed a few times, wordlessly, the bobbing of his moustache putting Gabriel in mind of a particularly indignant catfish.

“But - but how am I supposed to do that if you take my ship?” he stammered.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Gabriel’s footsteps clanged on the metal of the ramp. “You always do, right?”

It was so important to make time to find joy in the small things, Gabriel reflected. Which was why, as the shuttle doors slid shut, he took a moment to turn back and really _savour_ the sight of Mudd, red-faced and furious, down below him on the cargo bay floor.

*

 _“Mhy baby!”_ Xxkhlkkk keened, running xir proboscis over the scratches on the shuttle’s side. Xe was so taken with xir inspection of the vessel that xe didn’t seem to mind that Gabriel had accidentally landed in the middle of xir prize flowerbed. 

In his defence, the controls of the last shuttle he’d been in command of were designed for someone with fewer hands. 

“Mhy phoor baby. Hwhat did that <UNTRANSLATABLE> do to you?”

“She’ll need a little attention,” Gabriel told xir. “And, uh, a clean. But she’s spaceworthy. And Mu— _Kirk_ won’t be bothering you again.”

Xxkhlkkk turned xir huge eyes on Gabriel.

“I cahn’t thankh you enoughhh, Mishhter Lorcha,” xe said. “Iff there’sh anything you nheed - anything I chould do ffor you..?”

Gabriel hesitated.

“I know you only just got her back,” he said slowly, resting a hand on the shuttle. “But could I … borrow her? Just for one trip. I’ll have her safely home with you before you know it. Even take a look at some of the repairs on the way, if you like.”

Xxkhlkkk’s head tilted, as if xe was listening to the shuttle. At least, that was what it looked like. It wasn't as though xe had ears, so far as Gabriel could see. He realised that he had absolutely no idea how giant sentient space flies experienced sound, and resolved to look it up later.

“Off courshhe,” Xxkhlkkk said at last. “Ash lhong ash you nheed.” 

“Thanks. I’ll take good care of her. I promise.” 

He was pretty sure he'd get the hang of flying her in time for the next landing. Definitely. Probably. 

Xxkhlkkk placed a hand - a foot? Gabriel really needed to find out the right terminology for all this - on his arm to stop him, considering him for a moment, antennae twitching curiously.

“I ghot what I wahnted,” xe said. “Bhut you shaid that Khirk had something you nheeded, too. Did you ffind it?”

Gabriel thought about this.

“I’m not sure, yet. But … maybe. Yeah.”

Xxkhlkkk nodded.

“I thought sho. You tashted difffferent.” Xe paused, and waved the hand-foot that had rested on Gabriel's arm by way of explanation. “Shorry. I know that you bipedsh offten ffind that idea unchomfortable.” 

“No, it’s - fine,” Gabriel smiled.

“And iff I am not mistaken, you haff gained in hheight. Ish that typichal at your age, among your shpeciesh?”

“Uh. I don’t _think_ so?” said Gabriel, looking down, a little worried.

“Hmm. A trickh off the light, perhapsh.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel glanced at the clouds, doubtful. There wasn't all that much light to trick in the first place. He gestured to the shuttle. “I hate to rush you, but..?”

“Pleashe,” Xxkhlkkk waved him away. “Dohn’t let me kheep you.”

“Thanks, Zzzkhl _acckkk_ ," Gabriel gargled.

“Vhery ghood!” Xxkhlkkk called after him, antennae quivering with what Gabriel decided was probably amusement. “Kheep practishing. You’ll ghet there!”

Gabriel lifted a hand in farewell. As he did so, he caught sight of himself in the reflection of the bar’s windows. 

Shoulders back. Chin up. Straight-backed.

Gained in height. Who’d have thought it?

*

This time, Gabriel packed his own medkit. 

After he'd made orbit, he took one look at the navigational controls and decided to entrust the coordinates to the shuttle's autopilot system instead. It was probably for the best.

With little else to occupy him, he ran a cleaning cycle on the bathroom. Then another, just to be sure. Once he was certain that it no longer presented a biohazard, he gathered up the tools that Mudd had left scattered all over the place and settled down to repairs.

It was therapeutic work. As captain, he hadn't done much of this kind of thing on the _Buran_. He wasn't sure that Chief Engineer Cardew would have let him, even if he had expressed an interest in doing so. But here, with just him, the thrum of the engines - considerably less rattly than before, Gabriel noted with some pride - and the stars outside the viewscreen, he found it soothing.

He could be useful, here. There were things that needed fixing; he had the tools, and - after a brief argument with the computer, which seemed adamant that Gabriel wanted the maintenance manuals in a format that required compound eyes to make sense of - it turned out that he had the skills to do it, too. 

That was a reassuring thought.

There was no storm, this time, when he landed. No need to hide his face. This time, he walked steadily over the rocky mountain paths, even stopping once or twice to admire the view along the way, marvelling at how the heat seemed to make the horizon shimmer, the feeling of warmth on his skin like a long-forgotten memory after the year-round drizzle on Dj'reek. 

This time, Una was waiting for him, perched atop a great rock between two ancient statues, so still that she could almost have been one of them. 

"You were right," he called up to her as he approached. "Fortune cookies _are_ cliché. Thanks for not making it a riddle this time, at least. Coordinates are far more practical."

"You're welcome. Sarek was a little disappointed, though. I think he's got the taste for writing them."

"Tell him not to quit the day job just yet."

Oracle-like, Una considered him from her vantage point.

"I wasn't sure you'd show," she said at last.

"Wasn't sure you'd want me to," Gabriel admitted. He bothered at his beard. “Listen. About last time—”

"After you left, Amanda explained - in excruciating detail, I might add - all the ways Sarek and I could have handled our meeting better. You really don’t have anything to worry about."

“Still. I’m sorry.”

 _“I_ kidnapped _you,_ remember?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, chewing at the inside of his cheek to suppress an upwards twitch of his lips. 

“Thought you said it wasn’t a kidnap?”

Una shrugged. 

“Well. Maybe just a little one.”

The sensation crept up on Gabriel, unfamiliar, and when it came, the sound took him unawares. It bounced around the mountain, in the stillness and silence of Vulcan, with a warmth very different to the desert sun. 

He _laughed._

“You know the odds of pulling this off, right?” he asked, once the ripples had subsided, straightening up and sending out a silent apology to any passing locals for his cultural insensitivity.

“I do,” Una replied, calmly. “About … oh, eleven lightning strikes, by my calculations.”

There was no way to disguise the grin that broke out across Gabriel's face.

“Sounds like my kind of odds,” he said.

Una lifted a hand to shadow her eyes, trying to get a better look at him.

“Does that mean you’re joining us?”

“Guess it does.”

"What made you change your mind?"

Gabriel rubbed at his chin, thoughtful.

His scars weren’t just a reminder of There, of everything that had happened to him, of all the times he’d nearly died. They were a reminder that he hadn’t. That he had survived. That he was, after all, lucky. That somehow, implausibly, against all the odds, he was still here. Home.

And so long as that was the case, Gabriel had a purpose. 

He could use the fact that he had been forgotten to help make sure that no one else ever was.

He could _remember._

Something worth fighting for, at last.

“A Gabriel Lorca owes that crew,” he said. “And it turns out there’s a Gabriel Lorca right here.”

Una pushed herself off the rock, landing lightly in front of him.

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” she said, brushing back a curl of hair that had tumbled over her face, her expression suddenly serious. “None of it was. That guilt isn’t yours. You don’t have to shoulder it.”

“I could say the same to you.” Gabriel cocked his head to one side. “How about we try to make things a little better all the same, just because we can? Together?”

Like she’d set down a great weight, Una exhaled, her posture visibly relaxing.

“Together,” she agreed, softly. “It’s good to have you on board, Captain Lorca.”

Squinting a little in the sun, Gabriel looked out towards the horizon. 

There had been a time when he would have given anything to hear someone call him that. Like getting home, like finding out the truth, his old title had been a liferaft he’d clung to, a way back to normality, a way to get things back to how they used to be. 

It had never been enough. He understood now, finally, that it might never be enough. After everything that had happened, things could never be what they were. But, for the first time, Gabriel could see the possibility of a way forwards. A way to hold on to the past, to honour the people who had shaped him, while making something new. Someone new.

“It’s Gabriel,” he told her. “Just … Gabriel.”

He still had a long way to go. A lot left to work out and work through. A lot of hurt, in all likelihood. He knew that. And yet, for some reason, the simple truth of those two words made him feel more - complete, more hopeful, more _him,_ than he had in years.

It felt like enough.

Una smiled.

“In that case…” She jerked her chin at the great glass doors of the crypt. “Ready, Gabriel?”

He closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath.

The air tasted like adventure.

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue left to go, now. I'm feeling quite emotional...


	13. Epilogue

**_Dj’reek, six months later_ **

 

“Coffee?” Gabriel called from the kitchen, leaning back so that he could see his guest through the doorway. When she didn't respond, he added, “I’m sure I’ve got some hot sauce somewhere you could chase it with.”

“Thanks,” Una replied automatically, from her spot in the centre of the living room, where she was rotating slowly, concentrating hard on the tricorder outstretched in front of her. 

Chuckling, Gabriel shook his head and punched her regular order into the replicator. They went through this routine every time, however much he insisted that his security system was more than up to the task. 

Una frowned at the results on her screen for a moment and then, apparently satisfied that no one had managed to bug the apartment since her last visit, switched the tricorder off, setting it aside just as Gabriel returned with two mugs. 

“How did you guess?” she said, taking hers from him gratefully and sinking onto the sofa, curling her legs underneath her. 

Her hair was still damp from the quintessentially Dj’reekish sleet that had greeted her on landing. Meanwhile her tan, and the red dust that was even now cementing on the soles of her boots, as they dried out in the hallway, suggested she’d been spending a lot of time recently on Vulcan. The change in climate must have been fun. 

“Just a hunch,” Gabriel replied, taking up a seat at the other end of the sofa. “It’s good to see you.” 

“You too. You look well.”

“Being an inter-galactic man of mystery seems to agree with me,” Gabriel quipped.

“Clearly.” Una blew on the surface of the coffee to cool it. “I like the plant. That’s new.”

“Oh.” Gabriel glanced over at it, a conspicuous splash of colour in the corner with its long, yellow-trimmed, pointed leaves that corkscrewed and coiled around each other. “Thanks. It was a gift from—”

“Amanda.” Una nodded. “That’s her MO.”

“I’m told it’s virtually indestructible.”

Una smiled sidelong at him, hands wrapped around her mug.

“How apt.”

Gabriel took a sip of coffee to disguise his grin.

"Your message said something about another mission?" he asked. "Or - I thought it did. The slip was kind of cryptic. And it turned up at 3am," he added, nodding pointedly towards the kitchen. He'd been woken up by the replicator's chime after it had finished printing the fortune cookie, and the early morning riddle-solving hadn't exactly set him up for the day.

Still. Being able to eat most of the evidence of their communications was pretty useful, he had to admit.

"Sorry. Sarek's been getting carried away again. I'll try to get him to pay attention to the time difference in future, at least." Una pulled a PADD from her bag and tapped at the screen. "But yes. We have a new mission for you."

Gabriel's console lit up with the file Una had sent across, and he leaned over to take a look while she spoke.

“You’ll be partnered with one of our operatives.”

“Siobhan Tilly,” Gabriel read out loud. “As in..?”

“Her mother.”

Swiping through the file, Gabriel couldn't help comparing Siobhan's record with what he knew of Sylvia Tilly, trying to work out where the similarities lay between this effortlessly chic diplomat and the effervescent chatterbox he’d come to know through Airiam’s memories. 

From what he could tell, it seemed safe to assume that Tilly took more after her father.

“Siobhan’s work will be taking her to trade talks with Xahea next week. You’ll go with her, posing as her trusty assistant.”

Gabriel sighed. It was starting to feel a little like he was getting typecast. 

“All you have to do is meet another of our colleagues while you're there and pick up some new tech they've designed for us,” Una continued. “As fast as we uncover weaknesses in Starfleet security, they patch them. This should help us to stay a few steps ahead a while longer.”

“Sounds easy enough. So why does Siobhan need me?”

“Because the person who'll be giving you that tech is the Queen of Xahea.”

“The … Queen?” Gabriel repeated weakly. 

It probably said a lot about how far Gabriel’s priorities had shifted of late that this revelation barely registered as unusual to him. The Queen of Xahea was one of the Network’s operatives. Sure. That made perfect sense. 

“I’m sure you can imagine the uproar if the queen of a non-aligned planet were to be seen conspiring with a Federation diplomat to commit treason.”

“So you’re sending me to do the conspiring instead.”

“Well, you are the inter-galactic man of mystery, after all,” Una said drily. "Look, Siobhan's diplomatic clearance gets us a long way, but for the last stage we need someone who can get in and out of the palace itself, without showing up on security scans, and then melt back into the crowd. And that someone is you."

Gabriel held up a hand in defeat. 

“Fine. I’m in.” He paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Do I need to … curtsey while I'm conspiring?”

“No. Just don’t get caught. It would be nice to have you back in as few pieces as possible.”

“Don’t worry. Give me two cups of coffee and I can get into any building you like. No one will ever know I was there.”

“Excellent. Do try to restrain yourself from complicating things on this occasion, though.”

“That was _one_ time…” Gabriel muttered, mock hurt. He closed the file and grinned lopsidedly at her. “Anything else? Need me to drop in on the Klingon High Chancellor on the way back?”

“Not this week,” Una replied, so deadpan that Gabriel blinked, unsure whether or not she was joking. “But - yes, there was something else, as a matter of fact. I wanted to be the one to give you this."

Gabriel set his mug on the coffee table and accepted the PADD that she held out to him, frowning a little as he turned it the right way round.

" _‘The Federation Council hereby agree…'_ yada yada yada…" He trailed off as he reached the end of the sentence, and looked up at her for confirmation. "Is - is this—?"

"Sarek persuaded the Council that fifteen years was more than long enough to maintain silence about the _Buran,"_ Una said quietly. "And that a ban on a memorial was … illogical. They're working on the designs as we speak."

Gabriel stared at the words in front of him, half afraid that they would disappear if he looked away.

A memorial for the _Buran_. A proper memorial. Not the sad heaps of cards and flowers that piled up outside Command HQ every anniversary. Something real, something solid, something that couldn't be swept away as soon as the cameras were switched off. 

"Justice for the _Buran_ are happy. They even dropped their campaign to reopen the inquest," Una continued. "Turns out all they really wanted was to make sure their loved ones weren't forgotten."

Arranged neatly on Gabriel’s bookcase, a series of framed photos now filled the gaps between tomes. 

He could understand that instinct. 

"You alright?" Una asked, when he didn't speak. 

He managed a nod.

"Yeah," he said, a little hoarse. "Yeah, I'm good." 

And to his great surprise, he meant it.

Gabriel cleared his throat and sat up straight, tapping the PADD against the palm of his hand.

 _"Discovery_ next," he promised.

Una smiled. 

"One step at a time," she said, suddenly business-like again. "Which reminds me - how’s your plan progressing?"

"It's … progressing," Gabriel replied, non-committal. 

It was true. Almost. The plan was solid, but still theoretical. Despite his best efforts, he was missing a critical part. He'd searched everywhere, but it was proving elusive. 

"Just need a little more time, that's all."

“Well, that’s one thing we do have, thanks to them. Speaking of which,” Una glanced at the chronometer. “I should go.”

“Places to go, governments to infiltrate?”

“All in a day’s work.”

Casting a rueful glance at the sleet splattering against the window, Una pulled her coat back on.

“Is it always this cold here?” she griped.

Gabriel shrugged. 

“You get used to it.”

Gathering up the last of her files, Una looked unconvinced.

“Siobhan will be in touch.”

“I’ll keep a weather eye on the replicator.”

Una nodded to him, shuddered in the direction of the window one last time, and headed off.

Alone, Gabriel stood in silence for a moment, head bowed, brow slightly furrowed. On his coffee table, the PADD Una had given him still displayed the Council’s edict. 

The photos on his bookcase were already arranged perfectly, but he adjusted and then readjusted them back to exactly the same spots all the same, brushing his thumb gently along the frame of each. 

Gabriel smiled.

He had got as far as moving the mugs back into the kitchen when the door chimed again.

“Forget something?” he asked as he opened it, and stopped.

The missing piece of Gabriel's plan stood on the other side, swaddled in an enormous padded coat, with a thick purple scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face and an oversized, fur-trimmed hat, complete with earflaps, pulled low over his brow. The tiny part of his face still visible contained a scowl and, unfortunately for everyone concerned, that damn moustache.

“Expecting someone else?” Mudd asked sourly. 

He shuffled past Gabriel and into the apartment, leaving a soggy trail in his wake and glaring suspiciously at everything, including the plant. 

“Got your message,” he said gruffly, tugging off gloves as thick as oven mitts. 

“Interested?” Gabriel asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Are you going to tell me why you require my services this time?”

Gabriel spread his hands.

“Can’t a man have any secrets?”

Mudd narrowed his eyes, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he’d become hopelessly entangled in his scarf. 

“What’s the pay?” he asked, finally wrestling himself free. 

Gabriel sank into an armchair.

“Nothing,” he said cheerfully.

“Nothing?” 

“I'll tell you what.” Gabriel stroked his beard, thoughtful. “Because you're such a _pal,_ I’ll throw in not holding a grudge about that time you broke my nose with a data card and left me to take the fall for you. Or the time you drugged me. Or the second time you drugged me. Or when you tried to sell me to a bounty hunter.”

“But—"

 _“And_ you get to cause a little mischief for Starfleet.”

One arm in and one arm out of his coat, Mudd paused.

"Starfleet?" 

"Starfleet.” 

“How much mischief?” Mudd asked skeptically.

“How much can you manage?”

Mudd’s coat landed on the back of the sofa with a faint _squelch_ that made Gabriel wince. 

“Oh, _alright.”_

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. 

“That’s it?” he asked. “Not even an attempt at bargaining?”

“Nope. Seems fair to me.”

Screwing up his face, Gabriel pressed his thumb into the bridge of his nose, wearily.

"I can't trust you, can I?" 

Mudd looked offended.

"How dare you." He shook his head, disappointed. "Of course you can't _trust_ me."

Gabriel sighed and leaned back.

"Well, I guess we both know exactly where we stand."

"Yep. Teammates. Partners. Best buds." Mudd flashed him what he had no doubt mistaken for a charming smile. "Unless something better comes along."

"You sure know how to make a guy feel special," Gabriel grumbled. 

"If it makes you feel any better, you really were a very _expensive_ bounty," Mudd said wistfully. "Deal of the millennium."

It _did_ make Gabriel feel better, weirdly enough.

He lifted his chin and arched an eyebrow at Mudd.

"So. Ready to raise a little hell?"

Mudd rubbed his hands together with glee.

"Gabe, I thought you'd never ask. It _just_ so happens that I'd been formulating a few … projects since last we met, and—"

Gabriel held up a finger, halting him in his tracks.

“Three rules,” he warned. “Or the deal’s off. First - I’m in charge this time.”

Mudd rolled his eyes.

“Aye aye, sir,” he drawled, saluting sloppily.

“Second,” Gabriel continued, counting off on his fingers, "No one gets hurt."

"Ugh. Fine."

"And third - I'm not wearing that damn red thing again."

Mudd grinned and flopped onto the sofa. 

"You won't have to. In fact, very soon, no-one will. Starfleet just released the designs for their new uniforms, aaand..." 

As he strung out that final syllable - and Gabriel’s patience along with it - Mudd tapped at his wrist-PADD, flicking an image over to the media screen with a flourish.

"I know. I _know_ ," he said, watching Gabriel's expression shift, while on his own face a smirk threatened to break free of his ridiculous moustache. "Isn't it _wonderful?_ Just look at the little _boots!_ Attaching them to the trousers is a very nice touch, if you ask me. And that - belt - thingy? Inspired! Truly magnificent."

"No," Gabriel said, staring at the monstrosity lit up in front of him. So horrified was he that he completely failed to notice Mudd putting his feet up on the coffee table, a little puddle of sludge pooling underneath them. "No. Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Mudd replied innocently. He sank back into the sofa with a contented sigh, hands linked behind his head, his grin now so big that it could probably be detected from orbit. "I think beige will _really_ suit you, Gabe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand ... we're done!
> 
> The first idea for a 'Gabriel Lorca and Harry Mudd odd-couple-road-trip-heist-movie-buddy-comedy' popped into my head almost a year ago (which feels ... like a lifetime ago right now), and I naively thought it would be a couple of chapters. Three, tops. Five thousand words of jokes and absolutely no feelings. OK, maybe ten thousand words, 1 (one) feeling and a little bit of plot. And a little bit more. WAIT THAT'S TOO MUCH PLOT PUT IT BACK--
> 
> Shows what I know. Blame Una. 
> 
> If you've made it this far - thank you. I'm honestly so, so thrilled that other people have wanted to come along on this frankly ridiculous ride. You deserve some kind of medal. Send your bank details, your ID and all of your passwords to Harry Mudd, The Abandoned Warehouse, Dj'reek, and he'll sort one out for you, probably.*
> 
> My endlessly patient entomologist husband did his very best to explain spiracles and whether or not flies can hear to me, but all of the giant-insect-based mistakes are my own. 
> 
> And thanks to LizBee, who pointed out a while back that setting this fic in 2270 put Gabriel in serious danger of ... whatever this is: https://cdn.onebauer.media/one/empire-legacy/uploaded/star-trek-the-motion-picture-uniforms.jpg
> 
> (Sorry, Gabriel)
> 
> *Guaranteed only 90% dangerous metals!


End file.
